tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26257464161585315142014-12-23T13:20:59.534-08:00Late Blooming MomThe misadventures of a later-in-life momLate Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.comBlogger196125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-85197256210799075542011-12-04T11:29:00.000-08:002011-12-04T11:29:42.118-08:00Insomniac Mom: The Human Blackberry"You're doing it again," my husband said to me in bed the other night.&nbsp; "You're making lists."<br /><br />This is what my mind does, compulsively, before I can fall asleep.&nbsp; I lie in bed and think about all the stuff that's gotta get done -- for work, for the kids, for my husband, for me, for the general maintenance of&nbsp;a family-of-four household.&nbsp; And I bet I'm far from the only mom who does this.<br /><a name='more'></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qCjYN6Hx7M4/TtvJtzWAGyI/AAAAAAAAAVE/qDqotk6bHQQ/s1600/I-dont-Know-How-She-Does-It-Poster-Sarah-Jessica-Parker-Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qCjYN6Hx7M4/TtvJtzWAGyI/AAAAAAAAAVE/qDqotk6bHQQ/s320/I-dont-Know-How-She-Does-It-Poster-Sarah-Jessica-Parker-Poster.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>The reason I think so is a scene in the trailer for the recently came-and-went Sarah Jessica Parker movie,<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GSi3LdUrq18"> "I Don't Know How She Does It,"</a> which is apparently a so-so movie adapted from a&nbsp;<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dont-Know-Movie-Vintage-Contemporaries/dp/0307948560/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1323026609&amp;sr=1-1">novel</a> of the same name,&nbsp;by Brit Allison Pearson, which&nbsp;I read and very much enjoyed awhile back.&nbsp; In the scene, Parker is awake in the middle of the night while her husband is fast asleep beside her; she's staring at the wall opposite their bed, and envisioning on it her very extensive, wife-and-working-mother&nbsp;to-do list.<br /><br />Most of the time I catch myself&nbsp;making a list before sleep --&nbsp;I don't want it to&nbsp;be a part of my nightly routine, but it crops&nbsp;up regardless&nbsp;-- &nbsp;I don't&nbsp;make my&nbsp;list out loud.&nbsp; But if my husband's awake, I can't help myself.&nbsp; This is what happened, the other night. &nbsp;I started vocalizing my list, because some of it involved questions I needed to ask him, things about which I wanted his input.&nbsp; And let's face it, between his job, mine, and wrangling the kids, the time I actually have to get him to answer these questions is minimal.&nbsp; I gotta catch him when I can.<br /><br />The problem is, he has zero interest in my list or answering those questions when he's finally horizontal after an exhausting day.&nbsp; It ranks utterly last on his own list of stuff he likes to do in bed.&nbsp; <br /><br />I don't blame him.&nbsp; But I go on asking questions, at least a few of them, till I can see his patience with them is about to run out.&nbsp; I'm a bit compulsive, but only to a point.&nbsp; And by that I mean, I eventually shut up, and return to making the list in my head, sparing my husband the rest of it.<br /><br />I'd love to be rid of this habit.&nbsp; It's certainly not conducive to a restful night's sleep -- and as a mother of six-year-old twins, I don't get many of those anyway, between middle-of-the-night visits by those who have just had a nightmare or are in the middle of a nose-bleed ... and of course there are the way-too-early wake-ups just because, well, they want to be social withyou,whether you're awake yet or not.&nbsp; And who can blame them?&nbsp; It's one of the few times we working parents are&nbsp;a captive audience.<br /><br />As&nbsp;long as the demands on my&nbsp;waking hours continue to be great, as long as I'm&nbsp;scheduling&nbsp;and taking kids to doctors and&nbsp;dentists, soccer and ballet and birthday parties, as long as I've gotta get dinner on the table,&nbsp;and do&nbsp;much of the household meal&nbsp;planning, shopping, and the lion's share&nbsp;of the cooking (dad pitches in on&nbsp;the weekends, god bless&nbsp;him), AND put in 40 hours a week at my&nbsp;job, I fear the compulsive list-making has become a part of my life.<br /><br />I've become&nbsp;a human&nbsp;Blackberry.&nbsp;&nbsp; <br /><br />I just wish I could find the "off" switch between midnight and six a.m.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-49957584360683705772011-11-20T10:19:00.000-08:002011-11-20T10:28:15.331-08:00Testing 1,2,3 ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-96BKLITbqq4/TslEj7b0OLI/AAAAAAAAAU0/VFXWgZOYuYM/s1600/no_shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-96BKLITbqq4/TslEj7b0OLI/AAAAAAAAAU0/VFXWgZOYuYM/s320/no_shirt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>He's testing me and his dad a lot these days.<br /><br />He says he's not going to Hebrew School ... and waits for a response, lolling idly on the sofa.&nbsp; We ignore.<br /><br />A few minutes later, he refuses to come put on his rain&nbsp;boots.&nbsp; I give up on those -- that's an argument I can afford to lose -- and coax him into his room, where I put him in&nbsp;a cozy sweater and rain jacket.<br /><br />A few minutes later, at the door, it's "I hate this day," and "I'm not going."&nbsp; This time, he loses a sticker on his ready-for-school-on-time chart, and stickers mean something:&nbsp; once you earn 20, you get a dollar to put in your piggy bank and save&nbsp;up&nbsp;for toys.&nbsp; <br /><br />He throws a mini-tantrum.&nbsp; Then, when Dad gets stern, he starts to laugh.<br /><br />Dad has had it.&nbsp; So have I.&nbsp; It's been&nbsp;testing, testing, testing&nbsp;ever&nbsp;since he's been awake, and it's not even 9 a.m.<br /><a name='more'></a><br />Dad gets down to his eye level and reminds him we've told him many times it hurts our feelings when we ask him to do things and he laughs instead of taking us seriously.&nbsp; Dad then proclaims, "No treat for you today.&nbsp; Your sister will get one."&nbsp; (She's&nbsp;been&nbsp;mostly helpful today.)&nbsp; "Not you."<br /><br />Another mini-tantrum follows.<br /><br />We ignore.<br /><br />Finally zipped up and ready to go, he stands mid-way between the apartment door and the elevator, trying to see what happens if he stays there.<br /><br />The elevator is leaving without him and so are we.&nbsp; Eventually, he comes.<br /><br />We're in the car and he's buckled up and ready to go at last.&nbsp; I caress his cheek with my palm, give him a kiss, put my hand in his, and ask if we can push the "re-set" button on the day and start all over.<br /><br />Sheepishly, a little sadly, he says yes.&nbsp; Then, in a soft, low voice,&nbsp;he says "I love you, mommy."&nbsp; Which is lovely.&nbsp; But he adds:&nbsp; "I wish I could hold your hand all day."&nbsp; This part, sweet as it is, I choose to ignore.&nbsp; Because I'm not getting into yet another power struggle when I gently disengage my hand and shut the car door.&nbsp; We're already late, and the last thing I want is for my six-year-old to put me through yet another test.&nbsp; <br /><br />It's "Your Six-Year-Old:&nbsp; Loving And Defiant" all over again (see my <a href="http://latebloomingmom.blogspot.com/2011/08/defiant-ones.html">previous post</a>&nbsp;about the Defiant Ones).&nbsp; I marvel at how this little boy, not quite 42 lbs, but all of them stubborn, can turn from willfully exasperating&nbsp;to heart-breakingly tender in seconds.<br /><br />Apparently he's almost NEVER this way in school, and when he does get a bit crazy, all the teacher has to do is look at him and say his name -- no doubt using patented Teacher Tone -- and he snaps right back into obedient, even enthusiastic, student.&nbsp; (We just had our Parent Teacher evaluation this past week, which is how I know this.&nbsp; Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that classroom&nbsp;and watch him fall back in line with such a minor admonishment; I wish the teacher would come to my house.)<br /><br />Well, an hour has past since the boy was marched off to Sunday school, and I'm hoping our reunion later will be a sweet one.&nbsp; But the day will still be young.&nbsp; How many more tests are in store?Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-83393349651307102762011-11-06T10:37:00.000-08:002011-11-06T10:42:58.537-08:00Stealing The Halloween Candy: It's Proust's Fault!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--XMpHQ2oLMY/TrbTjQamTNI/AAAAAAAAAUs/FMIffoWUuNA/s1600/candybarjpg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ida="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--XMpHQ2oLMY/TrbTjQamTNI/AAAAAAAAAUs/FMIffoWUuNA/s1600/candybarjpg.png" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I confess.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I did it.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After the kids were abed, I made my way to the plastic jack-o-lantern buckets on the kitchen counter, and dumped out both kids' hauls on the floor, on&nbsp;the pretext of sorting through any loose, unwrapped candy or candy they could choke on.&nbsp; </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Looking at the bounty before me, childhood memories flooding back, mouth starting to water, suddenly craving artificial-tasting, factory-made, non-artisan treats, I lost all willpower.&nbsp; Within seconds, I'd unwrapped and devoured my first&nbsp;Fun-Size&nbsp;Nestle's Crunch bar in perhaps a decade.&nbsp; The Mounds Bar, we're probably talking 25 years.&nbsp; And this wasn't my first transgression.&nbsp; At the Halloween party, I ate one of the ghost-shaped cookies too -- smothered in orange frosting.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It's not that I haven't eaten any candy in years.&nbsp;&nbsp; <br /><a name='more'></a>But aside from the occasional bag of M &amp; Ms munched on a transcontinental flight or long California drive, I've pretty much stayed away from the mass-produced, non-Valhrona/Scharffenberger/Lindt variety of chocolate.&nbsp; As a proud foodie, I've disdained the items on the shelves of the supermarket in the check-out aisle, and opted for the kinds of candy made from well-sourced ingredients, produced in relatively&nbsp;small batches compared to the output of the Mars corporation, candy that comes with a serious price tag.&nbsp; For years I've looked down on waxy American chocolate, and candy bars loaded with artificial ingredients that don't even sound like food.&nbsp; I've also shied away for health reasons; suffering as I do from acid reflux, I've even limited my artisan chocolate consumption to rare occasions.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But Halloween night, my disdain and good sense, for once, could not trump my desire -- a desire for a taste of childhood that could only be satisfied by eating the stuff I'd forsworn.&nbsp; Nor did my guilt about stealing from my kids stop me.&nbsp; They had so much, I reasoned.&nbsp; They wouldn't miss a candy bar or two.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">If Marcel Proust could be magically transported back to his childhood with a bite of a Madeleine cookie, then why should I deny myself the same wonderful sensation?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Or so I reasoned.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Those few bites of familiar candy tastes and textures brought me&nbsp;right back to happy memories of sorting through my own Halloween haul; of costumes donned, of parties attended and thrown, of tinkling coins in Unicef boxes, of the thrill of being out after dark,&nbsp;of the&nbsp;comforting ritual of watching "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!," and of having the candy stash last for days and&nbsp;days and days.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It's days later, and so far, my crime has gone undetected.&nbsp; This is one case where what the&nbsp;kids&nbsp;don't know&nbsp; (or haven't yet noticed) won't hurt them.&nbsp; They can live with a little less sugar.&nbsp; Apparently, though, I couldn't.&nbsp; But I don't regret it.&nbsp; It was my little Marcel Proust moment.&nbsp; And it was yummy.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The good thing is, once I satisfied the urge, it left me.&nbsp; I've since walked by those kitchen counter&nbsp;Jack-o-Lantern buckets, still brimming with sweets, dozens of times, without even being tempted.&nbsp;</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But next year, no doubt I'll have my Marcel Proust moment all over again.&nbsp; Kids, I hope you forgive me.&nbsp; I once was a kid too.&nbsp; And that kid is still inside me.&nbsp; But she&nbsp;promises not to eat your last KitKat.</div>Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-61957027157018450792011-11-03T14:08:00.000-07:002011-11-03T14:08:46.407-07:00Uber-PTA Moms Vs. The Rest Of Us -- Read My Latest Post For Moms LAhere's the link<br /><a href="http://momsla.com/2011/11/uber-pta-moms-vs-the-rest-of-us-cant-we-all-just-get-along/">Uber-PTA Moms Vs. The Rest Of Us: Can't We All Just Get Along?</a><br />and I promise I'll be back blogging here ASAP.&nbsp;Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-78996570311140791652011-10-16T11:43:00.000-07:002011-10-16T11:54:11.433-07:00Mom On The Hamster Wheel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jIzntprjrE0/TpsdO49TeCI/AAAAAAAAAUk/3-g85npIWZc/s1600/hamsterwheel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" oda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jIzntprjrE0/TpsdO49TeCI/AAAAAAAAAUk/3-g85npIWZc/s1600/hamsterwheel.jpg" /></a></div>You know&nbsp;that wheel the little&nbsp;furry pets&nbsp;run on endlessly, spinning and spinning and spinning in their cages?<br /><br />I'm on the Hamster Wheel, and I don't know how to get off.<br /><br />I read the phrase "Work-Life Balance," and I laugh.&nbsp; Because there is no such thing.&nbsp; Not around here.&nbsp; Around here, there is only the Hamster Wheel.<br /><br />Here's what life on the Hamster Wheel looks like:&nbsp; <br /><a name='more'></a><br />&gt;Make breakfast for kids, with husband as sous chef.<br />&gt;Urge them repeatedly to get dressed so they can eat said breakfast.<br />&gt;While they sort of eat breakfast while distracting each other, pack school lunches and fill water bottles and make sure the school&nbsp;library book that has to be returned is in the right kid's backpack -- again, with help from husband.<br />&gt;Yell at kids for fighting, procrastinating, and in general, not eating breakfast.<br />&gt;Give kids multivitamins and feel blood pressure rise as kids take five minutes to chew a single vitamin.<br />&gt;Supervise teeth brushing, putting on shoes and jackets,&nbsp;and assist in application of sunscreen while husband showers.&nbsp; <br />&gt;Feel stomach acid churning as kids delay all of the above.<br />&gt;Get kids and husband out the door.<br />&gt;Make breakfast, scarf it down.<br />&gt;Make tonight's dinner and put in fridge to be warmed up later, when there will be no time for actual cooking.<br />&gt;Exercise on home exercise&nbsp;bike&nbsp;WHILE reading material for work.<br />&gt;Shower, resume work in home office.<br />&gt;At some point, have a snack at desk while working.<br />&gt;At some point, scarf down lunch and keep working.&nbsp; Alternate plan:&nbsp; use lunchtime to go grocery shopping.&nbsp; Forget the most important item needed and don't realize it until&nbsp;arriving home, with no time to go back to store and get it.<br />&gt;Get back to work.<br />&gt;Remember to make dentist/doctor/flu shot appointments for kids, self.&nbsp; Do so.<br />&gt;Get back to work.<br />&gt;Realize it's time to pick the kids up from school.&nbsp; Drop work and run to car.<br />&gt;Endure exasperating search for parking within a few blocks of school, imploring the parking Gods to be kind.<br />&gt;Get to school seconds after the bell rings, retrieve kids.<br />&gt;Get half way to car, several blocks away, when one kid declares, "I have to go to the bathroom," and other remembers he/she left a jacket/water bottle/homework folder at school.<br />&gt;Return to school.&nbsp; Deal with all of the above.<br />&gt;Get back to car, drive home.<br />&gt;Go through homework folders for notes from teachers and parent association/school forms/other info&nbsp;sent home from school and try to keep papers separate for each kid; deal with what is immediate; put other papers somewhere where they won't be lost and can be dealt with later (though some will get lost in the magical void of folders and papers on desk and never be recovered).<br />&gt;Get kids settled with mother's helper (Thank God -- worth every penny) and get back to work.<br />&gt;Endure multiple interruptions for nose bleeds, cuts, the settling of sibling arguments, and getting a kid who is throwing a fit over homework or nightly 20-minute reading requirement to calm down; return troublesome kid&nbsp;to care of mother's helper, who is, after all, not Mom, and therefore not capable of fully resolving all disputes and calming upset child back to the point of cooperation, because the kids won't let her if they know mom is here.<br />&gt;Try, try, try to keep office door closed and keep kids out of hair.<br />&gt;Fulfill a work deadline with seconds to spare.<br />&gt;Take one kid to soccer practice while other stays with mother's helper.<br />&gt;Start tomorrow's work in the gym while kid is at soccer practice.<br />&gt;Return home with sweaty kid, and give superfast, car-wash-style shower as mother's helper&nbsp;gets other kid --&nbsp;already showered -- into PJs (again -- Thank God for mother's helper).<br />&gt;Warm up&nbsp;dinner and get it on the table, as mother's helper leaves.<br />&gt;Eat with kids.&nbsp; Make up plate for husband, who is stuck in traffic on way home from work.<br />&gt;Supervise brushing of teeth and flossing and picking out of books to read for bed.<br />&gt;Greet weary husband, who scarfs down dinner.<br />&gt;Read books to kids or snuggle with kids while husband reads to them.<br />&gt;Stay in room till they fall asleep, because they still can't sleep without us.&nbsp; Sweet, but it's&nbsp;getting old, people.<br />&gt;Clean up from dinner.<br />&gt;Make tomorrow's lunch.<br />&gt;Talk with husband -- there's a novel concept -- IF there isn't more work to be done that didn't get finished.<br />&gt;Return email.<br />&gt;If still awake -- watch 1/2 hour of TV or stare at a magazine in bed without really absorbing it but trying to anyway, because it's "me" time.<br />&gt;Get ready for bed.<br />&gt;Collapse.&nbsp; <br />&gt;Toss and turn, going over everything that has to be done tomorrow.<br />&gt;Eventually fall asleep.<br />&gt;Be awakened by kids making loud mischief in their room at six-thirty a.m.<br />&gt;Repeat ... from the top of the list.<br /><br />But what about the weekends, you say?&nbsp; Surely they provide respite from the Hamster Wheel?<br /><br />Surely you jest ... or else you're not a working parent.&nbsp; The weekend is when you cart your children around to activities, enrichment classes, playdates and birthday parties, or just try to spend time with them that isn't about getting them ready for school or bed, and because you feel so guilty about the time you DIDN'T get to spend with them during the week because you were, um, earning a living.&nbsp;&nbsp; If you're lucky, you have a few moments of the day in which you're reveling in your kids, and vice versa, and you temporarily forget about the next thing you have to do, the next place you have to go, etc.<br /><br />Of course I realize I'm blessed to be on the Hamster Wheel.&nbsp; I have a job, in this economy, and so does my husband.&nbsp; I help&nbsp;pay our mortgage.&nbsp; We all&nbsp;have health insurance.&nbsp; My kids go to a really good public school, and while I fund raise and contribute, I'm not paying private school tuition.&nbsp; But mostly, I&nbsp;know I'm&nbsp;blessed because I have kids.&nbsp; I have dear friends who wanted kids and don't have them.&nbsp; &nbsp;I really, really, really wanted kids.&nbsp; How lucky that I got them.<br /><br />The thing is ... I just never realized they came with a Hamster Wheel ... and I&nbsp;have to&nbsp;be the hamster.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-64010299615168302062011-08-22T12:00:00.000-07:002011-08-22T12:31:01.305-07:00The Sorest Loser"That's not fair!"&nbsp; - my son to his sister, while playing UNO.<br /><br />"You're cheating!" - my son to his sister, while playing&nbsp;the card game WAR.<br /><br />&nbsp;"You're a liar!"&nbsp;- my son to&nbsp;his sister, while playing&nbsp;Candy Land.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I8usMk_i52s/TlKsL6Kg7xI/AAAAAAAAAUg/vIWxg44VgXI/s1600/games.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I8usMk_i52s/TlKsL6Kg7xI/AAAAAAAAAUg/vIWxg44VgXI/s1600/games.jpg" /></a></div>Is it any wonder when I got to the passage about&nbsp;six-year-olds being sore losers in&nbsp;<em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Your-Six-Year-Old-Louise-Bates-Ames/dp/0440506743">Your Six-Year-Old:&nbsp; Loving And Defiant</a>,</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;by Louise Bates Ames, Ph.D. &amp; Frances Ilg, M.D., that it sounded so familiar?<br /><br />The wise lady authors say, "To lose with a smile requires first of all that you do not care too terribly about the game -- and that you must be able to take a back seat once in a while.&nbsp; The ordinary Six-year-old has neither of these abilities.&nbsp; His emotions are violent and he cares intensely about almost everything.&nbsp; It is almost impossible for him to take a back seat.&nbsp; One of the cardinal rules in his life is that he wants and needs to be first."<br /><br />Yeah, that's my boy ... at least, that's him when playing with his twin sister, who is, of course, also six.<br /><a name='more'></a><br />And therein lies the rub, I believe.&nbsp; Because his competitiveness at summer camp is clearly not as pronounced.&nbsp; Sure, he likes to win whenever possible.&nbsp; And if he keeps losing at something, he stops wanting to play it, convinced it's too hard for him.&nbsp; Yet this insistence that the other player beating him must be lying or cheating seems to be confined to instances when that other player is his sister.&nbsp; <br /><br />I know this because I showed up a few minutes early to pick up my kids at sports camp one day this summer, when the&nbsp;campers were being awarded ribbons pertaining to their individual achievements at camp.&nbsp; Ribbon-giving was a weekly ritual at this camp, and every camper got a ribbon for something -- no doubt the pervasive influence of the positive self-esteem movement in American parenting.&nbsp; My son had come home with ribbons like "home-run derby champ," and "basketball passing MVP."&nbsp; But today he got one for "Best Sportsmanship."&nbsp; And according to the speech the counselor was giving, he'd been an all-around good sport all week -- which surely involved having to lose graciously&nbsp;to others. <br /><br />I'd likely still be picking my jaw up from the floor if I hadn't had to get the kids home and get back to work on some deadline or other that day.<br /><br />But it was that day when the light bulb&nbsp;clicked on&nbsp;for me.&nbsp; It's when he's playing against HER, his rival twin, that my son loses it.<br /><br />And he's not wholly to blame.&nbsp; His sister, though mostly a sweet, gentle, kind child, even an empathetic one when her brother is injured or sad, can be downright Machiavellian if she thinks she can manipulate someone to her advantage.&nbsp; I've noticed her insisting on comparing and contrasting her height, her speed on her bike, her abilities in swimming, to her brother's.&nbsp; <br /><br />Yesterday at lunch at a local deli, she and her brother both wanted my pickle.&nbsp; I didn't have a knife handy, so I split it with my fingers, and gave each sibling a pickle piece.&nbsp; It just so happened the piece I handed her&nbsp;happened to be&nbsp;a little bigger than the one I'd given to him, a fact I was hoping she wouldn't loudly trumpet to her brother once it was noticed.&nbsp; My hopes were immediately dashed, however.&nbsp; She simply had to point out that her pickle was larger, so she could&nbsp;relish (pun intended)&nbsp;this&nbsp;tiny triumph against the brother she nevertheless adores and from whom she draws security and strength by his very presence in her life.<br /><br />Yes, apparently&nbsp;she, too, has to be first in everything.<br /><br />The wise ladies who wrote the book suggest protecting little sore losers against playing competitive games with kids who do it better than they do, and when playing a game with them yourself, letting them win at least part of the time.&nbsp; So the other day, I made a point of playing a game with&nbsp;the boy&nbsp;-- luckily, it was a rare game his sister tends to lose, because it involves basic&nbsp;math, which he's particularly skilled at right now.&nbsp; She'd played one round with us both and given up.&nbsp; So it was just us two, which had been my original hoped-for outcome when we all sat down.&nbsp; I figured I'd have to let him win, but low and behold, he beat me anyway -- four times!&nbsp; It wasn't that I got the math wrong, but the dice seemed to favor the boy.&nbsp; He DID try to convince me he needed to re-roll the dice a couple of times when he didn't like what they gave him, and I nipped this in the bud on each occasion.&nbsp; But he won fair and square, again and again.&nbsp; He left the room triumphant.<br /><br />As for me, I'm trying to remind myself that even grown-ups don't like to lose ... and practicing doing so with equanimity is a lifelong task.&nbsp; So I'll cut the boy and his sister a little slack, and hope, as six leads to seven, eight, nine and beyond, that losing AND winning with grace and respect for your opponent is going to come with maturity.<br /><br />But till then,&nbsp;I'm damned if I'm playing UNO with those kids.&nbsp; They're ruthless.<br />Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-9424772649575872392011-08-22T08:00:00.000-07:002011-08-22T09:36:37.012-07:00Whassup With The Potentially Shorter School Year?This year the school year may wind up being seven days shorter, and I'm steamed about it.&nbsp; You can read more here:&nbsp; <a href="http://momsla.com/2011/08/the-school-year-may-be-seven-days-shorter-whats-a-working-mom-to-do/">http://momsla.com/2011/08/the-school-year-may-be-seven-days-shorter-whats-a-working-mom-to-do/</a>Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-8823373440497889902011-08-03T08:00:00.000-07:002011-08-03T14:42:54.473-07:00The Defiant OnesI just finished reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Your-Six-Year-Old-Louise-Bates-Ames/dp/0440506743">YOUR SIX-YEAR OLD:&nbsp; LOVING AND DEFIANT</a>, by Louise Bates Ames, Ph.D. &amp; Frances L. Ilg, M.D.&nbsp; I don't have a PhD nor an MD, but I could have told them about six-year-olds being loving and defiant:&nbsp; after spending half a year with twin six-year-olds, I should be awarded&nbsp;my own&nbsp;PhD in six-year-old studies.<br /><br />My boy&nbsp;nails that&nbsp; "loving-and-defiant" thing.&nbsp; Just this morning, he left the house blowing me a kiss and calling me his "true love."&nbsp; Okay, it's a little Oedipal, but I'll take it:&nbsp; it's really sweet.<br /><a name='more'></a>I'll take it because it&nbsp;counterbalances those times when, say,&nbsp;he refuses to clean up the play room, slams the door, kicks the floor,&nbsp;demands "Somebody help me!" and repeats that for about five minutes.&nbsp; When that fails, as&nbsp;it invariably does,&nbsp;he'll whine, "Why is no one helpilng me?"&nbsp; If I make my usual mistake about this point -- which is to engage him -- I'll say, "You didn't need any help making the mess, so it's your responsibility to clean it up."&nbsp; You can imagine how well this goes over.&nbsp; <br /><br />The best strategy, as&nbsp;recommended by the authors of&nbsp;YOUR SIX YEAR-OLD, is to ignore the tantrum.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And usually, that does work, because it runs its course within ten minutes or so.&nbsp; The boy can back into that loving, sweet kid about that fast.&nbsp; But not before a few "I hate you's" have been screamed at the very mom he professes to be his true love, usually pepperred by a few "It's all your fault!" and "I'm never going to clean up this room!&nbsp; Never!"<br /><br />Um&nbsp;... until he does.&nbsp; Which, eventually, he does every time.<br /><br />My daughter's not as overtly loving quite as often as her brother -- kisses and hugs usually are offered on her terms, when she's in the mood.&nbsp; But when she wants to serve me water in her tea set's cup, poured from the tiny ceramic pitcher, or when she insists on sharing her fruit with me, or when she sees her brother upset, and runs to get his favorite stuffed animal of the moment, she's&nbsp;tender and gentle and as loving as I've ever seen her.<br /><br />Defiance&nbsp;on my daughter's part generally occurs&nbsp;in when the girl is tired.&nbsp; And if she's tired, things are not going to go well.&nbsp; They're going to go very badly, very quickly.&nbsp; As with her brother, often she has to be left to let the fit run its course, but because her fits only come when she's exhausted, they tend to be at bedtime.&nbsp; Since she shares a room with her brother, this necessitates moving her to another room and staying with her in that room&nbsp;to make her stay in it so as not to keep her brother awake.&nbsp; This entails listening to her ear-splitting wails and watching her flail around on the floor.&nbsp; She insists she will calm down when she's allowed back into her bedroom.&nbsp; I insist she get calm first.&nbsp; This goes on a bit like the recent debt ceiling battle in Washington, with me playing the role of the reasonable party, and my daughter, the tantrum-throwing, no taxes no how people.&nbsp; Luckily, however, I usually don't have to sacrifice any principles or compromise my values to end the tantrum.&nbsp; I just have to calmly wait her out.<br /><br />Staying calm during the fit isn't easy for me, and I've made the mistake of engaging more times than I'd like to admit, which ONLY has the effect of prolonging the fit.&nbsp; But eventually, my refusal to let her out of the room until she's calm wins out ... along with a drink of water and a few moments spent with her perched on my lap in front of the computer, while I scroll through a few photos on <u><span style="color: purple;"><a href="http://catoftheday.com/">CAT OF THE DAY</a> </span></u>with her.&nbsp; Just a few moments of my solo attention, and she turns back into a cuddly, soft, warm bundle who can be gently walked to her bed.<br /><br />It never ceases to amaze me just how kind, compassionate, empathetic and loving my children can be towards their dad and I, each other, family members, friends, small animals.&nbsp; But ask them to do something they don't want to and Shazam!&nbsp; They instantly transform into the Defiant Ones.&nbsp; <br /><br />According to the book, that's pretty much the norm for six-year-olds, so I guess I should take comfort in that.&nbsp; Whether they're showering me with affection or adamantly refusing to clean out their lunch boxes, they're right where they're expected to be in terms of their emotional development.&nbsp; The only thing that worries me, though, is what the authors say about what's to come.&nbsp; Eleven, they claim, is a lot worse.&nbsp; And I'll have two eleven-year-olds at once.&nbsp; I wonder if it's too early to order the book on that.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-74604753379067321512011-08-03T07:00:00.000-07:002011-08-03T14:41:17.830-07:00Where Have I Been Lately?Not posting here, my faithful readers, and my apololgies for that.&nbsp; You'll find an account of my so-called "summer vacation"&nbsp;on the momsla website, here:&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="http://momsla.com/?s=there%27s+no+such+thing+as+summer+vacation">There's&nbsp;No Such Thing As Summer&nbsp;Vacation</a>.&nbsp;And I'll have an article featured soon on the <a href="http://www.motherhoodlater.com/">MotherhoodLater</a> site and/or its spin-off webzine, BabyBloomer.<br /><br />But writing elsewhere is no excuse not to keep faithful with my faithful.&nbsp; So a brand new post is underway...<br />coming very soon.&nbsp; In the meantime, happy midsummer.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-74472275997901428942011-06-10T17:19:00.000-07:002011-06-10T17:41:32.003-07:00The Drill Sergeant Takes A VacationA strange and amazing thing happened not long after I wrote my last post.&nbsp; I only had to get one kid ready for school and out the door -- Thing 2.&nbsp; Thing 1, poor lil' guy, was sleeping in after being up much of the preceding night with a cough.&nbsp; Thing 2 got herself up and dressed, brushed her hair, and appeared in sprightly and cooperative manner at the breakfast table.&nbsp; She ate what was put in front of her with nary a complaint.&nbsp; She had a pleasant breakfast, but didn't dawdle to the point where she had to be nagged to finish.&nbsp; She brushed her teeth when asked, cooperated for the application of sun screen, got her shoes and backpack on, received a reward sticker, and popped out the door with Daddy, right on time.<br /><br />I thought it was a fluke, this oddly helpful behavior, this smooth morning vibe, this easy-peasy morning routine.&nbsp; But then it repeated itself&nbsp;a second morning, while Thing 1 remained in bed again.<br /><br />My inner Drill Sergeant had been granted leave, and happily went on vacation.<br /><a name='more'></a><br />In the meantime, a good friend of mine from our kids' preschool days, who now has&nbsp;a toddler and a kindergartner, wrote to me with all sorts of&nbsp; helpful suggestions and recommendations for handling the kids in the mornings.&nbsp; Her first suggestion didn't work for us:&nbsp; she tells her older kid he won't have time to play Wii in the morning if he doesn't get dressed and eat breakfast, and it's his choice what to do.&nbsp; Great idea, but we are a Wii-less household, at least for the moment,&nbsp;in part because I&nbsp;believe if we had Wii around, we'd never leave the house -- at least not for something as mundane as school.&nbsp;&nbsp;Late Blooming Dad and I&nbsp;hope to keep the kids content playing Wii at other people's houses; it's a lot cheaper than buying one, and oh, the fights it avoids!&nbsp; (I know one dad who fights his kids over Wii time.&nbsp; The man can't get enough.&nbsp; I secretly believe this would be our fate too if we had one -- or an IPad for that matter.)<br /><br />But other things she mentioned were highly useful to everyone.&nbsp; She passed on tips from what I later realized is now somewhat of a latter-day parenting classic:&nbsp; <a href="http://www.amazon.com/How-Talk-Kids-Will-Listen/dp/0380811960/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1306190998&amp;sr=1-1">How To Talk So Kids Will Listen &amp; Listen So Kids Will Talk</a>, by Adele Faber &amp; Elaine Mazlish.&nbsp; The book is chock full of useful ideas, and some of them are so damn simple, you wonder why you haven't thought of them yourself, like this one:&nbsp; instead of repeating yourself six times until you're so frustrated you're about to turn into a six-year-old yourself, just say a word or two to remind the kids of what you want them to do.&nbsp; "Kids, pajamas!" turns out to be a whole lot more effective than, say, "How many times do I have to stand here and tell you to put your pajamas on already, people!"<br /><br />The nice parenting ladies recommend things like answering a question with a question, e.g.,&nbsp; "I don't know why that kid in your class is always teasing you.&nbsp; Why do you think he does that?"&nbsp; Or, "I need you to get ready for school in the morning on time, but you want to play.&nbsp; What do you think is a way we both could get what we want?"&nbsp; The idea is to let kids figure out their problems and come up with their own solutions.<br /><br />It's a good read, full of common sense solutions to many common parenting problems.&nbsp; I'm glad my friend recommended it.&nbsp; I'm using a few of the tricks I've learned already.&nbsp; But there's one thing that I learned from my drill sergeant's vacation, and it's that wrangling one kid, at least in my house, is WAAAAAAAAY easier than wrangling two.<br /><br />Thing&nbsp;1 has since recovered from his illness, thank goodness.&nbsp;&nbsp;And we're making a concerted effort to get&nbsp;both kids abed&nbsp;earlier, theoretically&nbsp;allowing them to get a full ten hours' sleep before&nbsp;having to get up and go.&nbsp;&nbsp; I've tried, when I've gotten enough sleep myself, to incorporate my friends' suggestions, and the best of those from the parenting ladies.&nbsp; Some mornings have gone a bit&nbsp;better.&nbsp; But not all.&nbsp;&nbsp; <br /><br />The sibling factor, or perhaps in my case, the twin factor, makes what should be a rather simply morning routine turn into a highly complex operation, requiring constant readjustments and mission creep ... it's beginning to sound a bit like the U.S. in Afghanistan, isn't it?&nbsp; One thing I suspect about the nice parenting ladies:&nbsp; they&nbsp;never had twins.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-58020935461689490182011-05-11T17:23:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:33:09.477-07:00What We Say, What They HearYears ago, FAR SIDE cartoonist/genius Gary Larson drew a cartoon in which a man was talking to his dog Ginger about her habit of rifling through the garbage.&nbsp; The cartoon was captioned, "What We Say To Dogs" and "What they hear."&nbsp; The man went on about how Ginger had better not get into the garbage again, or else, but all the dog heard was, "Blah blah blah GINGER, blah blah blah GINGER."&nbsp; (You'll find the cartoon<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/apotheker/10830160/"> here.</a>) But you can already guess my point:&nbsp; this is pretty much how six-year-olds hear their parents.<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Or at least, it's how MY six-year-olds hear myself and Late Blooming Dad, whenever we're asking them to do anything they're not interesting in doing, like, say, get dressed or get undressed; pick out their clothes for tomorrow or pjs for tonight; or, god forbid, actually finish breakfast so we can get them to school on time.&nbsp; For some reason, this latter request falls on completely deaf ears.&nbsp; Either that, or what&nbsp;Thing&nbsp;1&nbsp;hears is this:&nbsp; "Go ahead,take a single bite of the&nbsp;pancake lovingly prepared for your consumption,&nbsp;decide you don't like it, and spit it out but be sure and get some of it on the floor, and the rest on your shirt.&nbsp; Oh, and while you're at it, pick a fight with your sister."&nbsp; Meanwhile, Thing 2 has a completely different interpretation of what she's been told:&nbsp; "You might as well take twenty minutes to masticate that vitamin, and feel free to ignore all requests to finish it and brush your teeth until you've ensured beyond a doubt that Daddy will be late to his nine o'clock meeting after dropping you off at school."<br /><br />Recently, the&nbsp;unerringly accurate&nbsp;daily comic strip BABY BLUES(by Rick Kirkman &amp; Jerry Scott)&nbsp;had a whole series on this "what you say/what they hear" concept.&nbsp;&nbsp;You'll find a good&nbsp;example of it <a href="http://www.babyblues.com/index.php">here</a>.&nbsp; The parents, Wanda and &nbsp;Darryll, are just as exasperated&nbsp;by their spawn's selective hearing as&nbsp;the rest of us frustrated parents.<br /><br />Back in the fall, I attended a free&nbsp;parenting workshop at my kids' school, taught by a psychologist.&nbsp; This&nbsp;lady was also a mother of two&nbsp;now-grown children,&nbsp;so presumably she knew what she was talking about from personal as well as professional experience.&nbsp; She&nbsp;asked if parents were having trouble&nbsp;getting their kids to do what they're supposed to do in the morning before school, to get ready, or at bedtime.&nbsp; Duh.&nbsp; Then she informed us that our kids&nbsp;<em>already know exactly what they're supposed to do </em>by now, since they're in elementary school.&nbsp; They've been getting ready for school in the mornings since preschool, and they've known all about what they're supposed to do at bedtime for even longer than that.&nbsp; So why don't they cooperate?&nbsp; <br /><br />The psychologist said they've got lots of more interesting things to do, but that's not the only issue.&nbsp; We keep telling them what to do.&nbsp; A longtime dog owner, she brought up the subject of dog training, and asked, "If you tell a dog to do something six times, but there's only a consequence the <em>last</em> time you tell the dog to do it, what does he hear?&nbsp; That he only has to take you seriously the sixth time you say it.&nbsp; Why should your kids' reaction&nbsp;be any different?"&nbsp; <br /><br />Okay, I was with her up to this point.&nbsp; But then, when it came time to figuring out some solutions to get our kids to actually do what we want them to, she lost me.&nbsp; She said we could tell our kids to do something once, and once only.&nbsp; And if they didn't comply, we should stand over them, arms crossed, looking firm, until they do it.&nbsp; <br /><br />When that fails (and boy, does it -- believe me, I've tried it), she suggests doing&nbsp;things like letting a kid come to school late, with the stop in the office for a late slip and the coming-in-late-to-the-classroom walk of shame that will embarrass them so much they won't want to repeat the experience.&nbsp; Maybe that works.&nbsp; But&nbsp;we've never quite managed&nbsp;to find out&nbsp;because somehow, when we've suggested to Thing 1 or 2 that they're going to be late,&nbsp;the errant&nbsp;child in question&nbsp;reacts by throwing a fit, thus even further delaying our departure -- yet somehow not quite enough to qualify for that walk of shame.&nbsp; We always manage to make it in the nick of time.&nbsp; By then, however, Late Blooming Mom and Dad are in foul moods that color our entire mornings at work, churn up mom's acid reflux or put dad's lower back into spasm, and make us hate ourselves as parents because, of course, we lost our tempers at the little manipulators, and threw our own fits.<br /><br />My solution to the get-to-school-on-time problem has been a sticker chart, which worked decently for about a month and a half, but has now gone off the rails.&nbsp; It was meant to be all about positive reinforcement:&nbsp; you get ready for school by 7:45, you earn a sticker, and if you earn 20 stickers, you get to shop for a small toy.&nbsp; The 20 stickers were earned in that month and a half or so, and toys were selected and dutifully purchased.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But since then, the thrill of earning stickers seems to have gone, and the taking away of stickers has become the consequence of choice when Thing 1 or Thing 2 misbehaves.&nbsp; This has resulted in several unintentionally comic races to the sticker chart, where the misbehaving child tries to shield the aforementioned sticker chart with his or her body, so that the sticker(s) cannot be removed by the determined parent.&nbsp; The determined parent nevertheless prevails, but the tears come too.<br /><br />Variations to the sticker earning process have been introduced:&nbsp; unpack your lunch box and wash your hands within five minutes of coming home, and you earn a sticker.&nbsp; Get ready for school by 7:30 instead of 7:45 and you earn a whopping TWO stickers.&nbsp; <br /><br />But misbehavior -- and more sticker removal -- continues.<br /><br />I remember the psychologist at the meeting back in the fall discouraging physical rewards for doing what kids are supposed to do anyway.&nbsp; She referred to that system as "a token economy."&nbsp;&nbsp;Instead, she encouraged rewards like, "a special lunch out with mommy," or "book time with daddy," but those rewards aren't immediate, and they don't seem to get the kids' attention nearly so much as something shiny and plastic and made in China.&nbsp;&nbsp; <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QK_Jpwma8l0/Tcsyy6Nt_tI/AAAAAAAAAT4/7SM03_hiAUI/s1600/winston-churchill-11282050747Nnft.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QK_Jpwma8l0/Tcsyy6Nt_tI/AAAAAAAAAT4/7SM03_hiAUI/s320/winston-churchill-11282050747Nnft.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>To&nbsp;bastardize a phrase of&nbsp;<a href="http://www.quotationspage.com/quote/364.html">Winston Churchill's</a>,&nbsp;our sticker chart is the&nbsp;worst&nbsp;form of government&nbsp;except all the others that have been tried.<br /><br />Something tells me that whenever&nbsp;Churchill's&nbsp;Brooklyn-born&nbsp;mother <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_Randolph_Churchill">Jennie</a>&nbsp; told young Winston, "You mustn't," he heard, as they say in Brooklyn, "fuggetaboutit."&nbsp; <br /><br />He turned out all right.&nbsp; But I'll bet it was no fun being his mother.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-81619872803351019032011-05-06T07:00:00.000-07:002011-05-06T17:15:07.512-07:00Life Is Too Short For Birthday Party Pizza<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kiq3F5g7BQA/TcSKQNAvjfI/AAAAAAAAATw/rSF8ICoJXHs/s1600/badpizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kiq3F5g7BQA/TcSKQNAvjfI/AAAAAAAAATw/rSF8ICoJXHs/s1600/badpizza.jpg" /></a></div>To all whom I'm about to offend -- especially parents who have graciously invited my kids to your kid's birthday party -- I apologize.&nbsp; But I cannot help myself.<br /><br />Life really is too short for Birthday Party Pizza.<br /><br />By Birthday Party Pizza, I mean the super cheap kind that comes from a national fast-food chain and is meant to inexpensively feed a horde of small&nbsp;children who'd rather get right to the main event -- birthday cake -- and is also meant to&nbsp;feed&nbsp;parents who attend the parties too and find themselves in need of a little more sustenance than&nbsp;the&nbsp;precut carrots, celery sticks&nbsp;and ranch dressing.<br /><br />In this day and age of slow food, locally grown ingredients, organic this and free-range that, there is some awesome pizza to be had out there.<br /><a name='more'></a>I'm thinking of&nbsp;pizza dough that's made from imported Italian flour, hand-stretched by a pizzaialo trained in Naples, whose pizzas&nbsp;could be&nbsp;certified as authentic&nbsp;by the Associazione <a href="http://www.verapizzanapoletana.org/">Verace Pizza Napoletana</a>.&nbsp; I'm envisioning pies adorned with&nbsp;Buffala mozzarella flown in&nbsp;twice-weekly from the Campagnia region,&nbsp;the cheese sitting on a bed of&nbsp;sauce made from San Marzano tomatoes, topped off with fresh basil, and&nbsp;made in a wood-burning pizza oven that can reach 800 degrees. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5lk6IlZmijs/TcSKYhH-HdI/AAAAAAAAAT0/U-EwPdvR5fY/s1600/napoletanapizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5lk6IlZmijs/TcSKYhH-HdI/AAAAAAAAAT0/U-EwPdvR5fY/s1600/napoletanapizza.jpg" /></a></div>But let me be clear:&nbsp; I absolutely&nbsp;do NOT&nbsp;expect to see that pizza anywhere near a child's birthday party.&nbsp; Not even once.&nbsp; And let's face it, at ten dollars for a dinner-plate sized pie,&nbsp;what parent in their right mind would serve that to a child, let alone a house full of hungry parents?&nbsp; What parent can afford to?<br /><br />However,&nbsp;on the other extreme, there's always&nbsp;some national chain down the street with the processed cheese and the rubberized dough, a chain that spends far more on TV advertising than it ever does on ingredients.&nbsp; And it's that chain, or one like it, that seems to be getting the lion's share of the pizza party dough.&nbsp; That, my fellow parents, is a crying shame.<br /><br />I don't know about your kids, but my kids don't even like that national chain stuff.&nbsp; I've seen them give up on that chain pizza after one or two bites, and leave their slices lying forlorn on their party-themed Hello Kitty or Spiderman plates.&nbsp; I've seen your kids do it too.&nbsp; That's why you have so much left over pizza after the party, people.<br /><br />Maybe all that artisan pizza has turned me into a picky pizza eater.&nbsp; A pizza snob.&nbsp; &nbsp;I admit it.&nbsp; Guilty as charged.&nbsp; I've been willing to scour the web for a great slice or pie.&nbsp; If I go to NY and don't eat pizza, I'll weep.&nbsp;&nbsp;My&nbsp;devotion to great pizza has&nbsp;even affected my kids, who&nbsp;can't go any more down-market than CPK (which is acceptable as kid pizza goes, though not ever going to be memorable).&nbsp; <br /><br />But all that said ... Birthday Party Pizza doesn't have to be bad.&nbsp; And it doesn't have to be artisan, either.&nbsp; <br /><br />For just a few more bucks, -- and I'm willing to pitch in those few more bucks -- I'll bet you can get a pizza from a pizzeria that's local, not national; maybe it's a single, family run&nbsp;pizzeria,&nbsp;or&nbsp;maybe it's a mini-chain, with a few local stores scattered around town.&nbsp; These places are worthy of our support.&nbsp; And their products are generally actual food.&nbsp; So call me, parents.&nbsp; I'll find one near you.&nbsp; One that uses actual cheese, and still&nbsp;makes the dough by hand, or at least&nbsp;uses&nbsp;a trusty old mixer with a dough hook&nbsp;in the back room, before cousin Joey, up front manning the pizza peel, stretches the dough, slathers on some home-made sauce, and tops it with some real cheese.&nbsp; I assure you,&nbsp;two or three large pizzas from these places won't break the bank.&nbsp;&nbsp;And they're a far, far better thing.<br /><br />I realize I've never ordered pizza for ten or twenty-plus kids and their parents;&nbsp;the two times&nbsp;I've thrown&nbsp;birthday parties for my kids, it's been brunch:&nbsp; bagels and cream cheese and fruit affairs, with juice and coffee and&nbsp;not much else thrown in beside the requisite cakes.&nbsp;Bagels and such is easy peasy, and won't cause the wallet to break out into a cold sweat.&nbsp; <br /><br />So I took the&nbsp;easy way out.&nbsp; And I know, instead of criticizing,&nbsp;I ought to be a grateful, gracious guest and thank all those parents who've had my kids to their kids' birthdays, and even put out food for the adults.&nbsp; So let me take a moment right here and now to do that:&nbsp; thank you for entertaining my kids for two hours' plus;&nbsp; thank you for enduring the mess they made in your home; thank you for the goodie bags that they loved (and fought over on the way home, but that's not your fault).&nbsp; And thank you for the thank-you cards we got&nbsp;later&nbsp;for the gifts that we brought.<br /><br />All that said ... next time, can we get some decent, non-chain&nbsp;pizza?&nbsp; I'm willing to fork over cold, hard cash&nbsp;to support the cause -- and your party budget -- really I am, even if it violates Emily Post party etiquette.&nbsp; Because I don't think I can face another Birthday Party Pizza.<br /><br />P.S. I can't get through this without plugging my favorite place to munch a quick slice:&nbsp; the Santa Monica location of <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/joes-pizza-santa-monica">Joe's Pizza</a> (the original's on Bleeker St. in NYC).&nbsp; It's not artisan, but oh, baby, it's good.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-44325324042404846122011-05-01T10:17:00.000-07:002011-05-01T10:39:47.401-07:00Attack Of The Mom-Brain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rR1CnuRVI80/Tb2VIf5qNjI/AAAAAAAAATo/WSqqdpQjzkk/s1600/gracie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rR1CnuRVI80/Tb2VIf5qNjI/AAAAAAAAATo/WSqqdpQjzkk/s1600/gracie.jpg" /></a></div>The other day, I ran into a pregnant mother of two at the mall, trailing the kindergartner who's in my daughter's class, and her preschooler.&nbsp; I mentioned Thing 2 and I were looking forward to the playdate we'd scheduled with her kindergartner the upcoming Saturday, and she got a puzzled look on her face.&nbsp;&nbsp; "Wait, is that the 7th?" she asked.&nbsp; I nodded.&nbsp; "That's her birthday," she exclaimed, pointing to her preschooler.&nbsp; The mom had actually suggested the date to me about three or four weeks back in an email, when she wrote about making a playdate.&nbsp; Now it was suddenly occurring to her that she'd double-booked, and not just on any day, but her other daughter's birthday.&nbsp; She turned a bit reddish and then said something to the affect of, "You must think I'm a total space cadet.&nbsp; But see, I have three calendars.&nbsp; I know I shouldn't but ..."&nbsp; And on she went until I interrupted with this:&nbsp; "It's fine, I get it.&nbsp; I have Mom Brain too.&nbsp; You not only have Mom Brain, you have Pregnant Mom Brain."&nbsp; She knew what I was talking about: moms have too friggin' much to remember.&nbsp; And it's to the point where, yes, you could actually FORGET the date of your own kid's birthday in a moment of well-intentioned, over-scheduling madness.<br /><a name='more'></a>&nbsp; <br />For some of us, being a mom means suffering from&nbsp;Mom Brain attacks, on a fairly regular basis.&nbsp; The Mom Brain Attack turns previously meticulously organized, Type-A Virgos like myself into Gracie Allen.&nbsp; Gracie Allen, if you're not well-versed in vaudeville, radio and early TV stars of the last century, was the dizzy-dame on-screen partner (and savvy off-screen wife) of straight man husband George Burns, a guy who made a living for the first half of his lengthy career standing next to Gracie, holding a cigar, and asking her questions designed to show off just how dizzy she could be.&nbsp; Gracie's persona was a woman who constantly mistook one thing or person for another, and&nbsp;operated on a logic system that only made sense to her.&nbsp; She always had the best of intentions -- just like the mom who'd booked the playdate on her other kid's birthday -- but things got impossibly mucked up anyway.&nbsp; In real life, Gracie raised two adopted kids who apparently turned out fine.&nbsp; But I'll bet she had her Gracie moments, her Mom Brain Attacks, with them, because I suspect all moms do.<br /><br />Mom Brain attacks can come at any time, but one thing I've found certain to bring them on is a pre-six-thirty-a.m. in-the-bed visit from Thing 1.&nbsp; My little boy insists on being the Herald of the Morning, popping up bedside and then tumbling onto mom and dad no matter how deeply asleep we are, and invariably rousing us to the point where we cannot return to slumber even after we've sent him back to his own bed.&nbsp; The resulting lack of a full night's sleep is liable to produce all sorts of Mom Brain attacks in the coming hours.&nbsp; Here are some examples I've experienced:<br /><br />-Pouring orange juice instead of milk over breakfast cereal.<br />-Letting the oatmeal boil over because I've forgotten I'm making oatmeal, because I stepped away to check my email ten minutes ago.<br />-Unloading the dirty dishes from the dishwasher.<br />-Forgetting to dry the clothes I stuck in the washer ten hours ago.<br />-Going to the grocery store to get one specific item, buying four other items, then getting all the way home before I realize I didn't get that one specific item.<br />-Reflexively getting on the freeway to go to a staff&nbsp;meeting&nbsp;that is actually scheduled for the next day.<br />-Reflexively heading home after school drop-off INSTEAD of getting on the freeway to go to that staff&nbsp;meeting the next day.<br />-Teaching Thing 2 to cook by following a recipe&nbsp;for something utterly simple --&nbsp;grape juice&nbsp;gelatine, so Thing 2 could make jiggly Jello shapes -- and&nbsp;somehow being convinced it read "Four cups of grape juice, One Envelope Unflavored Gelatine" ...and noticing,&nbsp;three hours later after the gooey stuff still refused&nbsp;to set in the refrigerator, that the recipe actually called for FOUR&nbsp;envelopes of unflavored Gelatine.<br /><br />You get the idea. Perhaps you've&nbsp;experienced some Mom Brain Attacks of your own recently --&nbsp;you know, that time you showed up&nbsp;with child and wrapped present at some other kid's house at what you were convinced was the appointed day and time for a birthday party, only to find out you've missed the party by a full week.&nbsp; Feel free to share your stories -- I will empathize and commiserate.<br /><br />My point is, something happens&nbsp;in our neural wiring when we become moms, and&nbsp;our software turns as kluge-y as a Microsoft update of Windows.&nbsp; The more we try to do our very best for our little ones, the more details we have to keep track of, the more responsibilities we take on, the less space there seems to be in our overtaxed grey matter to keep it all straight.&nbsp; If only we could add more memory, the way I can to a laptop computer.&nbsp; But then again, more memory probably wouldn't solve the problem.&nbsp; Even if our capacity to store more information was expanded, we'd probably just have more stuff to mix up.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3tNK_d85q4o/Tb2VuTOAbzI/AAAAAAAAATs/dEy1wLcVyVE/s1600/sound_of_music_maria_and_von_trapp_children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3tNK_d85q4o/Tb2VuTOAbzI/AAAAAAAAATs/dEy1wLcVyVE/s320/sound_of_music_maria_and_von_trapp_children.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I count myself lucky that I've only two kids' schedules to keep track of, plus my own and my husband's.&nbsp; I only have to worry about keeping track of school events for two classrooms, plus T-ball, ballet, swim lessons, Hebrew School, etc.&nbsp; Imagine if I had another kid to add to the mix.&nbsp; Honestly, I don't know how Maria Von Trapp did it without an Excel Spread Sheet program.&nbsp; Of course, she was Austrian and her husband was a Naval Officer, so that might've helped.&nbsp; But somehow, I suspect even Maria showed up on the wrong day&nbsp;to&nbsp;Liesl's yodeling lessons.<br /><br />To all who suffer the consequences of our mom brain attacks (and honey, I'm really sorry about the Bugs Bunny collector's item mug I broke last night trying to hang it on the mug tree on the same branch where another mug was already hanging), here's a plea from a mom who seems to channel her inner Gracie on a regular basis:&nbsp; a little forgiveness, please.&nbsp; We mean well.&nbsp; We're just, well, moms.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-44605232272582370862011-04-07T21:07:00.000-07:002011-04-07T21:17:52.379-07:00The Republican War On ChildrenHalf the teachers at my kids' school got pink-slipped.&nbsp; <br /><br />You read that right. Half.<br /><br />Some of those pink-slips MIGHT be rescinded, but they wouldn't have come at all if less than a handful of Republicans in the California State Assembly had allowed Gov. Brown to try to extend some tax increases that were due to expire, by holding a special election in June.&nbsp; They offered him the kinds of "compromises" that nobody should take -- gutting environmental regulations in the state was one of them, and by the way, dirty water and dirty air hurt kids too, not just cuts to education.&nbsp; The Gov. had already agreed to all sorts of cuts in programs that help the poor and the elderly, concessions to public employee unions, etc.&nbsp; But no, the greedy bastards couldn't muster a few votes, and now it's pink-slip time at LAUSD.<br /><a name='more'></a>The principal told us the other night that class size could balloon to 29 kids per class in first grade.&nbsp; She MIGHT be able to buy some positions back -- if the parent association can raise, oh, say, a ballpark $200,000 more atop the $300,000 or so already raised, money that's supposed to cover the library, physical education, art, music, and teacher aides, as well as teachers already hired to keep fourth and fifth grade classes from ballooning past, um, 33 students.&nbsp; That's because LAUSD doesn't cover ANY of those things.<br /><br />The pink slips are happening throughout LAUSD, and probably all over the state.<br /><br />But no, Republicans wouldn't let the voters go to the polls and decide whether or not to extend tax increases that would have avoided all of this.<br /><br />You can whine and stamp your feet and say Democrats in California&nbsp;spent too much money over the years.&nbsp; On some things, yes.&nbsp; But they also prioritized things like funding education, keeping the air and water clean, and trying to at least&nbsp;extend a safety net to people for health&nbsp;insurance.<br /><br />The main reason everyone is suffering in California and every other state&nbsp;is&nbsp;that irresponsible types on Wall Street sold bad investments -- derivatives of crappy mortgages the banks shouldn't have given to begin with -- during the Bush years, when oversight was basically abandoned as a government policy,&nbsp;because the big corporations and investment banks that back Republicans don't like oversight.&nbsp; The two wars we got into -- and you can argue whether they were both necessary, don't get me started on that -- didn't help.&nbsp; But when the market got wise to those crappy deriviatives, the housing and stock markets crashed as a result, and the property taxes that are supposed to maintain our schools took a huge tumble.&nbsp; <br /><br />Stop whining, people, about union pensions for public employees.&nbsp; Some may&nbsp;be bloated, sure, we should implement some pension reform,&nbsp;but they're a drop in the bucket compared to how Wall Street screwed us all.<br /><br />Kanye West famously said, post-Katrina, that George Bush didn't care about black people.&nbsp; Well, it's pretty clear to me that Republicans don't care about kids.&nbsp; Just look at what's going on&nbsp;in D.C. The House&nbsp;is in&nbsp;Republican hands, and their&nbsp;Budget Chairman's budget proposal asks for:&nbsp; tax cuts to billionaires and big corporations, while drastically cutting programs for low and middle-income families.&nbsp; Two-thirds of the cuts the Republicans are proposing come from programs that serve low-income families, like health-care, nutrition, child care, home energy assistance, Medicare, Medicaid, Pell Grants (to help poor and middle class kids go to college), food stamps, Head Start, housing, and yes, K-12 education.<br /><br />In Wisconsin,&nbsp;Republicans already outlawed the public employees' right to collective bargaining -- the main reason anyone joins a union, so they can make a living wage.&nbsp; Not get rich.&nbsp; Just live.<br /><br />I'm tired of the Tea Partiers and Birthers and their holier-than-thou, righteous attitude about taxes, as if paying taxes, or God Forbid, paying MORE taxes, makes you a Socialist.&nbsp; You know what?&nbsp; Under Dwight Eisenhower, tax rates could go as high as 92% for the richest Americans, and he wasn't any kind of Socialist.<br /><br />I pay my taxes, and I'd willingly pay more if it meant my kids' teachers could keep their jobs -- jobs that are so low-paying now, some of them are on the school lunch program.&nbsp; And yes, I think even if you DON'T have kids, you oughtta pay the same taxes I do.&nbsp; Because there's something called the social contract.&nbsp; It's not about handouts.&nbsp; It's not Socialism.&nbsp; It's about taking care of your neighbor so they don't fall into poverty.&nbsp; It's about something bigger than just you and your bank account.&nbsp; It's about responsibility to others.&nbsp; That's not socialism.&nbsp; That's&nbsp;having a heart.&nbsp; <br /><br />Democrats gave us Social Security.&nbsp; Democrats gave us Medicare and Medicaid.&nbsp; Democrats defend the rights of workers to be in a union.&nbsp; And it's Democrats who try to keep our air and water clean.&nbsp; They're also trying to impose some consumer protection on banks and credit card companies, and yes, they're responsible for that healthcare bill that, oh, does things like allow me to keep my kids on my policy till they're 26, and keeps them-- and everyone else --&nbsp;from being denied coverage due to a pre-existing condition.&nbsp; Some Democrats are in the pocket of corporations, sure; some are into earmarks and pork, and I wish they didn't compromise so much right out of the gate.&nbsp; <br /><br />But one thing's for sure.&nbsp;&nbsp;Democrats -- at least most of them --&nbsp;don't act like they hate our children.&nbsp; Republicans, on the other hand, it should be crystal clear to anyone who's&nbsp;even barely paying attention that&nbsp;they've declared war on kids.&nbsp; So as soon as any of you get the chance, please, I beg of you:&nbsp; Fire Them.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-48203345727401487322011-03-02T17:08:00.000-08:002011-03-03T19:49:38.980-08:00Of Fast Pokes, Cupid, And True Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-3JmvzNMHKB4/TW7qh9EwzFI/AAAAAAAAATk/pYhoKlBJF6E/s1600/cupid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" l6="true" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-3JmvzNMHKB4/TW7qh9EwzFI/AAAAAAAAATk/pYhoKlBJF6E/s320/cupid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The other day, I was walking the kids to school from our parking spot nearby when they accused me of making them late, insisting I was a "slow poke."&nbsp; I pointed out this could not be true because I was, in fact, many strides ahead of them, at least a quarter of a block ahead, when they said it.&nbsp; At this point, the girl, AKA Thing 2 (because she's the second born of twins), took off on a tear, zipping in front of me and gleefully shouting, "I'm a fast poke!"<br /><br />I asked her where she'd heard that before.&nbsp; "I&nbsp;just made it up," she said.&nbsp; At which point, the boy, AKA Thing 1, tore past me, shouting, "I'm a fast poke too!"<br /><br />I had to write it down because I'm afraid if I don't, I won't remember this stuff; it'll too easily get lost in the shuffle of filling out permission trips for field trips, making the 100th lunch of the school year, and tying yet another loose shoe lace.<br /><br />When I picked them up from school the other day, I stopped the car at the corner and noticed the puffy clouds, covering a swath of sky in cotton-ball softness.&nbsp; I pointed them out to the kids.&nbsp; "I wish I could go up there and touch them," said Thing 2.&nbsp; Thing&nbsp;1 then commented, "I wish I could stay up there and meet Cupid.&nbsp; Is Cupid real, mommy?"&nbsp; <br /><br />I think I'm in love.&nbsp; So I guess the answer to that would be yes.<br /><br />Of course, this was followed quickly by the same question about Zombies.&nbsp; It's not all sweetness and light around here.<br /><br />But I am trying to savor the moments that are ... and forgive my kids or myself for the moments that aren't.<br /><br />The kids often put me in mind of those car commercials where the announcer brags that the car can go from 0 to 60 in&nbsp;X number of&nbsp;seconds.&nbsp; Only in my kids' case, they go from adorable to impossible.&nbsp; You'd think, by now, I'd react by not being impossible too.&nbsp; After all, I've had this mom gig for six years.&nbsp; But I can turn on a dime too.<br /><br />Getting them to get dressed, eat breakfast, brush their teeth, get their shoes and jackets and backpacks on in the morning turns me into a drill sergeant, and I really don't want to be.&nbsp; Neither does Late Blooming Dad.&nbsp; But some mornings, it takes the two of us, barking at both kids, threatening to take toys and privileges away, to get them out the door in something approximating on time.&nbsp; The other day, after Thing 1 had been dawdling and refusing to listen and preferring to take his sweet time with every task, or just plain refusing to do them, the&nbsp;parental&nbsp;haranguing escalated, with raised voices, and suddenly it was too much for the kid to take.&nbsp; He burst into tears and declared, "I feel hated."&nbsp; Late Blooming Dad responded by taking everything down and delivering a heartfelt hug.&nbsp; I joined in briefly.&nbsp; But I couldn't help feeling guilty for hours after.&nbsp; All I'd been trying to do was get the kid ready for school on time, and he felt hated.&nbsp; <br /><br />Tomorrow morning, the sticker chart goes up and we try a new approach:&nbsp; twenty on-time days -- a sticker for each&nbsp;-- will mean a new toy.&nbsp; But the real change has to be in our attitudes as parents.&nbsp; Yes, we need to get to work on time, and that means getting the kids to school at least close to on time.&nbsp; But the haranguing only led to stress for all concerned, and a decidedly sad family moment.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I did feel better that afternoon, when I got to school and the door to Thing 1's classroom opened as the bell rang.&nbsp; Thing 1 zoomed out of his classroom and into my arms, declared me his "true love," and gave me a kiss.&nbsp; His quickness to forgive is another thing I don't want to ever forget.</div>Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-42971788474466549222011-01-30T10:10:00.000-08:002011-01-30T10:56:29.423-08:00Powerless To Resist The Princesses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TUWo_ML8FQI/AAAAAAAAATU/1-iB2VLTNTY/s1600/disneyprincess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" s5="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TUWo_ML8FQI/AAAAAAAAATU/1-iB2VLTNTY/s320/disneyprincess.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Journalist Peggy Orenstein's latest book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cinderella-Ate-Daughter-Dispatches-Girlie-Girl/dp/0061711527">CINDERELLA ATE MY DAUGHTER</a>, was prompted by her own daughter Daisy's infatuation with everything Princess, brought on almost immediately upon Daisy's beginning preschool.&nbsp;According to Orenstein,&nbsp;who is interviewed in this<a href="http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/la-ca-conversation-20110130,0,2965332.story"> Sunday's <em>Los Angeles Times</em></a>, after a week of preschool,&nbsp;Daisy "had as if by osmosis learned all the names&nbsp;and gown colors of the Disney princesses, and that is all she could talk about."&nbsp;&nbsp;By age three or four, Daisy's peers had already been reached by the Disney Princess marketing machine, which ten years ago began marketing Princesses together who'd never been marketed apart from their individual movies.<br /><br />Just yesterday, Late Blooming Mom's daughter attended a play date at which&nbsp;one of the main activities&nbsp;was&nbsp;dressing up as, you&nbsp;guessed it, Disney Princesses.<br /><a name='more'></a><br />My girl&nbsp;happily spent most of the play date in Snow&nbsp;White garb, despite that fact that see has seen only parts of Snow White (it's too scary, she insists, to watch all the way through), and though we&nbsp;own it on DVD, she never requests it.&nbsp; She's only made it through THE LITTLE MERMAID once (also too scary), and the same&nbsp;is true of&nbsp;SLEEPING BEAUTY (after which she nervously asked, "Why does Maleficient live in fire?").&nbsp;&nbsp;She&nbsp;is a big fan of Belle's though she's never seen BEAUTY AND THE BEAST and knows it only from a book.&nbsp; She portrayed Disney princess Tiana (THE PRINCESS AND THE FROG) this past&nbsp;Halloween, clomping around in wildly uncomfortable plastic light-up shoes all evening and willing to endure the pain because they matched the gown.&nbsp;&nbsp;Thanks, Disney, for introducing her to the idea that painful shoes are worth&nbsp;wearing if they look cool. &nbsp;Her new bike with training wheels is&nbsp;TANGLED-themed, and even came with Rapunzel's comb and a kit of other hair accoutrements (she now wears the hair clip&nbsp;almost daily).&nbsp;&nbsp;She frequently dons a Cinderella nightgown (the one Princess movie that isn't really scary, so she's seen it multiple times),&nbsp;and has&nbsp;Jasmine underwear (she saw&nbsp;ALADDIN at a kid's night out at her preschool).&nbsp;&nbsp;And&nbsp;when she was learning about&nbsp;Thanksgiving&nbsp;in kindergarten this year, I'm forced to admit&nbsp;I found myself&nbsp;educating her about Native Americans by popping on the computer and yes, showing her&nbsp;bits of POCAHONTAS.&nbsp; Such is the pervasive influence of the Disney Princess marketing behemoth. <br /><br />The princesses are generally marketed to the 2-6 set, so maybe my girl is at the upper end of the everything-princess phase.&nbsp; But somehow I doubt it.&nbsp; When I was a kid, I portrayed a princess in a summer camp play, and I enjoyed the brief bout of attention I got for this, but it did not make me want princess dolls, princess dress-up clothes, a princess bathing suit and beach towel (my daughter possesses all these).&nbsp; When I was a kid, there were nowhere near as many princess products paraded in front of me.&nbsp; As Orenstein points out in the <em>LA Times</em>, "People always say, I played&nbsp;Princess when I was a kid.&nbsp;&nbsp;That's kind of like the difference between having four TV channels when you were a kid and having a satellite dish now."<br /><br />I admit I haven't dissuaded my daughter from all this.&nbsp; In fact, I even encouraged her interest in Belle, whose favorite thing to do is read&nbsp;books (what parent could object&nbsp;to that?) and in Tiana, who is the first African-American&nbsp;Disney princess, and who succeeds not by marrying a prince (though she does that), but by having an ambitious dream of opening her own restaurant (entrepreneurship) and working damn hard to&nbsp;make it happen.&nbsp; I was excited to see TANGLED, and we all thoroughly enjoyed it, even our boy, thanks to the savvy Disney folks making it as much male lead&nbsp;Flynn Ryder's story as Rapunzel's.&nbsp; &nbsp;The movie is smart and funny and entertaining, start to finish.&nbsp; This is the problem with Disney entertainment in general:&nbsp; when it's done well, resistance is, I'm afraid, futile.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TUWpiK3W6eI/AAAAAAAAATY/SdyRQXCUW9I/s1600/CinderellaAteMyDaughter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TUWpiK3W6eI/AAAAAAAAATY/SdyRQXCUW9I/s320/CinderellaAteMyDaughter.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>As a family, we're frequent Disney Store visitors, even if it's just to kill some time at the mall:&nbsp; we limit what the kids are allowed to purchase there and mostly leave without buying ... but when it's big ticket item time, e.g., for birthdays or Hannukah, we do let them shop there.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We also watch the Disney Channel on TV (though that's not so Princess-y, thank goodness).&nbsp; Therefore it's not surprising that my son is no less immune to the marketing than my daughter.&nbsp; Thing One, AKA the world's biggest CARS movie fan, says he wants to be a race car driver when he grows up.&nbsp; And he owns a HANDY MANNY truck with tools, as well as TOY STORY character-themed toys Buzz and Woody,&nbsp;and scads of Disney-themed clothes.&nbsp; There are defintely some arguably negative affects on my boy, e.g., the general materialism it&nbsp;engenders (more toys, more!)&nbsp;and the reinforcement of traditional gender interests (cars and tools, cowboys and space).&nbsp; But there is one thing&nbsp;the Disney marekting to my boy&nbsp;does&nbsp;not do:&nbsp; it does not&nbsp;fixate my son's attention on his appearance.<br /><br />For girls, there are definite&nbsp;downsides to the Princess phenomenon.&nbsp; You can't lay them all at the feet of Disney's&nbsp;inescapable&nbsp;marketing machine.&nbsp; Our entire culture has been sexualizing girls much earlier.&nbsp; Orenstein talks of how "40% of six-year-old girls regularly wear lip gloss or lipstick," and cites her own hypocrisy:&nbsp; "I'm ... telling my daughter that looks are not important while I'm looking in the mirror."&nbsp; Society prizes youth and beauty, and the emphasis on body image has been only going up in the last thirty years.&nbsp; Yes, Disney's Hannah Montana has grown up and image-wise, the actress who played her is looking something&nbsp;like a&nbsp;pole dancer these days.&nbsp; But&nbsp;is that really entirely Miley Cyrus' fault (and her parents' fault for depriving her of a normal childhood)?&nbsp; Take your daughter shopping at the mall and she can't help but&nbsp;see the revealingly clad mannequins, the once trashy, now fashionably&nbsp;revealing, flimsy, loud, brazen, even hooker-like&nbsp;attire in every women's clothing store window.&nbsp;&nbsp; <br /><br />Let's face it, ladies.&nbsp; There is nothing secret about Victoria anymore.&nbsp;&nbsp; And as soon as&nbsp;my daughter&nbsp;can read (she's on the verge),&nbsp;she'll see there's a store called "Forever 21."&nbsp; What is she supposed to make of that?<br /><br />I'm also dismayed that, because none of the Princesses marketed together on, say, a t-shirt, nightgown or plastic drinking cup ever look at one another -- per a Disney directive (they don't appear in the same movies so they don't "know" one another in the Disney world) -- the underlying message is one of competition, not friendship, between women.&nbsp; I want my girl to have her girlfriends, girlfriend.&nbsp;&nbsp;When it comes to emphasizing the importance of female friendship, even&nbsp;SEX AND THE CITY is more positive for women then Disney Princesses.<br /><br />So what's a modern mom to do with all this stuff?&nbsp; It's way too late in our house to just say no, that's for sure.&nbsp; I haven't yet read Orenstein's book, but I am itching to dive in, just as soon as I have a kid-free, chore-free, work-free moment.&nbsp; In the meantime, I'm going to start paying closer attention to my little girl's fascination with appearance, clothing, any form of make-up and jewelry -- and try to encourage moderation in all things Princess.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-65169021628334357772011-01-24T18:00:00.000-08:002011-01-24T21:47:28.261-08:00Dear Tiger Mom: I Don't Need Parenting Advice From The Wall Street Journal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TT5Y6hM02sI/AAAAAAAAATM/qQQlWMgJKfc/s1600/tigermom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TT5Y6hM02sI/AAAAAAAAATM/qQQlWMgJKfc/s320/tigermom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unless you've been in a media blackout -- which is something that can actually happen to moms who are too busy cooking, cleaning, feeding, bathing, and clothing their kids while&nbsp;trying not to neglect their husbands, and maybe working full-time too -- you probably know all about the Tiger Mom.&nbsp; But in case you don't, here's a quick refresher:&nbsp; Amy Chua is a Yale law professor whose parenting memoir, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Battle-Hymn-Tiger-Mother-Chua/dp/1594202842">The Battle Hymn Of The Tiger Mother</a>, was recently excerpted in the <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html">Wall Street Journal</a>.&nbsp; It's caused a bit of a dust-up over parenting methods, at least in the print and online media, with subsequent articles about the book appearing&nbsp;in&nbsp;<em><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/18/opinion/18brooks.html">The New York Times</a></em> and&nbsp;<em><a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2011/jan/21/health/la-he-tiger-mother-parenting-20110121">The Los Angeles Times</a></em>,&nbsp;and it was even mocked satirically in the <em><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/louis-bayard/a-tiger-mom-shares-her-se_b_812559.html">Huffington Post</a>.</em>&nbsp; <br /><br />The controversy it's generated seems to focus mostly on Chua's strict parenting of her tween-age girls, e.g., she didn't allow them playdates or sleepovers, they couldn't participate in school plays, they had to get straight As.&nbsp; In one instance, her elder daughter was forced to perfect a challenging piano piece while her mom threatened to take her dollhouse to the Salvation Army, and&nbsp;then Chua deprived the girl&nbsp;of dinner and even&nbsp;bathroom breaks.<br /><a name='more'></a>Chua is the striving, successful&nbsp;Chinese-American daughter of immigrant parents.&nbsp; She's&nbsp;married to a Jewish dad (another Yale&nbsp;law professor) who's more permissive, but also less heavily&nbsp;involved with his daughters:&nbsp; he's there, but doesn't put in the same hours and effort Chua does.&nbsp;&nbsp; Chua&nbsp;has garnered&nbsp;praise in the media for setting clear goals and having high standards, which has no doubt helped her produce high-achieving kids,&nbsp;but she's&nbsp;also getting drubbed for having kept her kids from the kinds of non-academic interaction with other kids&nbsp;that can help&nbsp;them&nbsp;master social skills which would&nbsp;undoubtedly help them succeed in life too, especially when it comes to relationships and working with others.&nbsp; (By the book's end, when her&nbsp;youngest daughter rebels,&nbsp;Chua finally -- and sensibly --&nbsp;loosens on up things&nbsp;like the no-playdate rule.)&nbsp; &nbsp;She's being lambasted for&nbsp;being such a no-fun, hard-ass mom and&nbsp;accused of depriving her kids of having a real childhood, at least by American standards. <br /><br />Here are a few points Late Blooming Mom hasn't seen made about the Tiger Mom controversy.<br /><br />A)Chua's book was excerpted in the <em>Wall Street Journal</em>, where it first garnered notoriety.&nbsp; Nobody should look to the Wall Street Journal for parenting advice.&nbsp; <br /><br />Nobody on Wall Street has behaved like a grown-up for years.&nbsp; I realize Chua's book&nbsp;was not published by the <em>WSJ</em>, but she chose to have it excerpted there.&nbsp; The <em>WSJ</em> is in the business of covering business first and foremost -- but I use the term "covering" loosely, because it is really the voice of Wall Street.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It's the utter lack of ethics and a sense of responsibility to one's fellow man exhibited&nbsp;by large and&nbsp;often sociopathic-acting&nbsp;American companies -- especially the big Wall Street investment banks -- that&nbsp;has led us into the mess that is devastating the American family every single day.&nbsp; The <em>WSJ</em> is&nbsp;the mouthpiece of corporate America, which has done its level best to destroy the security of middle class families by selling crappy bundles of crappy mortgages and&nbsp;continues to rake in huge profits thanks in part to all us tax-paying families who bailed them out.&nbsp; Corporations are sitting on piles of cash and not hiring back any of the workers they've downsized or outsourced.&nbsp; The values reflected in the <em>WSJ </em>make it a very odd place to publish an article telling us how to raise our kids.&nbsp; <br /><br />Chua is not&nbsp;a corporate CEO, but agreeing to have her book&nbsp;excerpted&nbsp;there smacks of, at best, a poor choice on her part, and&nbsp;a&nbsp;decidedly inappropriate one.&nbsp;&nbsp;Good moms would not let their kids get away with the kind of legalized thievery we've seen on Wall Street in the past ten years.&nbsp; If you've seen the kids' movie DESPICABLE ME, you might remember that the would-be supervillain protagonist goes to the Bank of Evil&nbsp;to&nbsp;apply for a loan for his latest evil scheme.&nbsp; The sign above the Bank of Evil's&nbsp;door says:&nbsp; "Formerly Lehman Bros."&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Leave it to the writers of a kids' movie to sufficiently skewer the powers that be; I'd rather take my parenting advice from them.&nbsp; (For the record, those writers are:&nbsp; Ken Daurio, Sergio Pablos and Cinco Paul.&nbsp; And by the way, by movie's end, that "supervillain," Gru, makes a great dad.)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TT5j6HfSEvI/AAAAAAAAATQ/9sYDbLWtnEI/s1600/gru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" s5="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TT5j6HfSEvI/AAAAAAAAATQ/9sYDbLWtnEI/s320/gru.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />B)Sure, it's good to make your kids tough&nbsp;things out&nbsp;sometimes, so they can learn&nbsp;they're capable of doing something they think, at first, they can't accomplish.&nbsp; But depriving them of&nbsp;dinner and bathroom breaks is the kind of&nbsp;borderline abusive tactic that's going to send&nbsp;many kids into therapy as adults.&nbsp;&nbsp; All parents mess their kids up in some way or another.&nbsp; It comes with the territory.&nbsp; But I know I didn't have kids for the central&nbsp;purpose of&nbsp;grinding them into&nbsp;high achievers so I can bask in those achievements.&nbsp; I will want to do what I can to prepare them for a competitive world, and I'll kvell when they do well in school or at music or on a sports team, etc..&nbsp;&nbsp;But being potential prodigies is&nbsp;not their reason for having been created.&nbsp;&nbsp; I made 'em to love 'em, and not to&nbsp;be&nbsp;perfect.&nbsp; <br /><br />As for discipline, sometimes I take toys away from them if they don't behave well, or offer them&nbsp;a&nbsp;reward of some kind they can earn through good behavior.&nbsp; They're still in kindergarten, so there are no grades for me to get hung up on, though one day I will for sure be paying more attention to their academics beyond simply encouraging them to read and write.&nbsp; I know they'll have to practice some things longer than they are inclined in order to get good a those things, and I'll try to coax them to do so.&nbsp; I can still remember my mother drilling me in long division.&nbsp; But&nbsp;she never&nbsp;deprived me of dinner or the bathroom.&nbsp; And I won't do that to my kids either.&nbsp; That would&nbsp;teach them to be cruel.&nbsp; I'd rather they be kind than academic superstars or music prodigies.&nbsp; Kindness will come back to them again and again in kind, and make them a lot happier, if not necessarily wealthier.<br /><br />C)Chua has a good&nbsp;point or two.&nbsp; The current generation of American-born parents are soft on their kids compared to parents&nbsp;born into&nbsp;other cultures, and over-emphasize self-esteem.&nbsp; But not making them strive as if their lives depended on it is okay too.&nbsp; In fact, it's one of the great blessings of American life.&nbsp; Even in the midst of this recession, when everybody we know in the battered middle class&nbsp;seems to be&nbsp;having to make some sacrifices, and the poor are getting no richer,&nbsp;living standards for most American families are much&nbsp;higher than when my immigrant grandparents arrived from the shtetl, and needed to learn English and get educated in order to secure decent&nbsp;jobs, a living wage,&nbsp;and potential&nbsp;futures for their families.&nbsp; Having&nbsp;our kids take it a wee bit easier is, well, part of why their ancestors worked so damn hard.<br /><br />My parents each had one immigrant parent and one who was born here but was the child of immigrants.&nbsp;&nbsp;Following their parents' dreams, mine&nbsp;moved on up, a little like the Jeffersons, though in&nbsp;their case, &nbsp;from Brooklyn to Manhattan, where they found their rent-controlled apartment in the sky.&nbsp; My folks had high expectations for my brother and I, and in many ways, we've realized those.&nbsp; Like Amy Chua and her husband, we too are Ivy League graduates.&nbsp; But there's a down side to all that pushing.&nbsp; Sky high expectations can cause pain&nbsp;that lasts for years.&nbsp;&nbsp;One time I can still remember my brother and me, as adults, sitting down with my parents and asking why we felt that nothing we did would ever be good enough for them.&nbsp;Years and years later, &nbsp;I'm still feeling like I'm not quite living up to my potential.&nbsp; The striving part of that is fine; the restless lack of satisfaction with my accomplisments, though, can be paralyzing.&nbsp; I want something else for my kids.&nbsp; <br /><br />It took the Tiger Mom for me to realize I'm more of a Teddy Bear mom, doling out a lot&nbsp;more hugs and considerably less humiliation.&nbsp; I can still be tough and put my foot down when my kids need rules enforced&nbsp;and stick-to-itiveness emphasized.&nbsp; &nbsp;They need to work toward some goals and have to do some stuff they'd just as soon not.&nbsp; But not&nbsp;all the time.&nbsp; <br /><br />Why should life have to be such a chore and a struggle simply because it was for another generation?&nbsp; Let's&nbsp;honor our immigrant ancestors' hard work by, um, living a little.&nbsp; A day without homework or piano practice can be a good thing.&nbsp; It leaves time for daydreaming -- something there's less and less time for in adulthood.&nbsp; As Einstein said, "<a href="http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Albert_Einstein">Imagination is more important than knowledge</a>."&nbsp; My grandparents and great grandparents worked their butts off.&nbsp; But I know if they were here now&nbsp;they would want my kids to enjoy a little more childhood fun, and less childhood labor.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-90959131116347105832011-01-10T07:00:00.000-08:002011-01-10T10:54:38.802-08:00A Three-Week Winter Break? Really, LAUSD?We have -- just barely -- survived the three-week winter break that is mandatory in the Los Angeles Unified School District.<br /><br />Dear LAUSD school board, what are you thinking?&nbsp;&nbsp; A three-week winter break?&nbsp; REALLY?<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TStTRE3Q22I/AAAAAAAAATE/9Nkg3HWsdhs/s1600/crankyboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TStTRE3Q22I/AAAAAAAAATE/9Nkg3HWsdhs/s1600/crankyboy.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TStTTxzE1yI/AAAAAAAAATI/uXm_rYvw4oA/s1600/crankygirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TStTTxzE1yI/AAAAAAAAATI/uXm_rYvw4oA/s1600/crankygirl.jpg" /></a></div><br />My friends with kids&nbsp;in other school districts gasp in amazement.&nbsp; Not one of them&nbsp;can believe it when they hear about it.<br /><br />Taking kids out of their routine and plunging them into the hands of their exhausted working parents, NOT ONE OF WHOM HAS THREE WEEKS OFF over Christmas, is friggin' nuts.<br /><br />Here's what happened around here.&nbsp; Late Blooming Mom and Dad enrolled our kids in winter break camp, which while not outrageously expensive, is still an added strain on the family budget.&nbsp; Winter camp was held the week before Christmas at a school that's not far, but still isn't our home school, necessitating our kindergarteners getting used to a new campus ("Where's the bathroom, mommy?").&nbsp; Luckily, our workplaces were closed Christmas Eve day and New Year's Eve day, so we didn't have to pay for childcare on those days.&nbsp; But there was no camp the week between Christmas and New Year's.&nbsp; What, exactly, are working parents supposed to do?<br /><a name='more'></a><br />Thankfully at least one parent (Late Blooming Mom) had the week off this year, thanks to the company doing well enough to close down for a few days.&nbsp;&nbsp;A&nbsp;four-day visit from aunt, uncle, and twelve-year-old niece kept the kids happily occupied at least some of the time.&nbsp;&nbsp; Late Blooming Mom also held her second-annual cookie decorating party during that Xmas/New Year's week, managing to entertain thirteen children six and under, as well as their moms, for three-plus hours.&nbsp; As I only do this sort of thing once a year, it's actually fun, except of course for the massive clean-up.&nbsp; I am still finding sprinkles in the oddest of places.&nbsp; <br /><br />Over the course of the week, there was much parent-kid, quality time bonding, and while there was some crankiness and crabbyness on everyone's part, we were all doing pretty much okay in each other's proximity.&nbsp; It helped that Late Blooming Dad at least had the three-day weekend over New Year's off.<br /><br />Then came Week Three.<br /><br />Again, I must ask LAUSD:&nbsp; three weeks?&nbsp;REALLY?<br /><br />More money was shelled out, for MORE winter camp, this one mercifully held at the kids' regular school.&nbsp; But it was back to work for both parents now, and though we enrolled the kids in the cooking activities at camp, these activities all seemed to consist of finding novel ways for kids to ingest as much sugar as possible.<br />By three days into Week Three, we were all acting like three-year-olds who'd missed their naps.&nbsp; No one was getting along, and grouchiness reigned supreme.<br /><br />We had&nbsp;a reprieve on Thursday, the kids' sixth birthday.&nbsp; Late Blooming Mom and Dad finagled the day off and took the kids to <a href="http://www.knotts.com/">Knotts Berry Farm</a>, where <a href="http://www.knotts.com/public/admission/prices/deals.cfm">canned food donations</a> for the local food bank got adults in for the almost reasonable kids' price (parents take note, this offer is good till Jan. 30th), and we escorted the kids to Camp Snoopy, where they giddily spent the entire, crowd-free weekday, traipsing onto some of the same rides again and again without a wait, just because they could.&nbsp; This is about the ONLY positive benefit I can think of when it comes to the three-week break:&nbsp; an amusement park that isn't jammed.<br /><br />But on Friday, it was back to work for mom and dad again, and by now, the kids were wildly&nbsp;ancy and&nbsp;starting to ask, with plaintive longing in their voices,&nbsp;"Is it a school day?"&nbsp; Because the camp was charging a premium that day to shove&nbsp;kids on a long bus ride on a bus without seat belts, after which they'd be "treated" to Disney On Ice,&nbsp;more sugar, and another long bus ride, Late Blooming Mom opted to instead take advantage of the company's&nbsp;access to a&nbsp;back-up childcare center.&nbsp; This less expensive option meant the kids could play in a school-like setting&nbsp;for the day,&nbsp;near Late Blooming Mom's company.&nbsp; Thank the corporate gods for that one, for sure.&nbsp; But the center&nbsp;also happens to be located far from where we live, so it meant dinner out on a Friday night, involving a long wait at the pizza place and LOTS and LOTS of cranky kids and parents who were all just itching for the damn three-week break to be over already.&nbsp; By the time we rolled home, they were hyper, overtired, and just shy of insane.&nbsp; And Late Blooming Mom could do nothing but turn them over to Late Blooming Dad, relief pitcher, and take Advil.<br /><br />The by now seemingly&nbsp;unending winter break&nbsp;next saw us at our breaking point.&nbsp; The worst&nbsp;played out on Saturday&nbsp;morning, when the kids woke each other up (and&nbsp;we parents, not to mention, apparently, the neighbors)&nbsp;far too early, and were behaving as if magically transported to adolescence (sullen, rebellious, full of attitude).&nbsp; Their lack of cooperation and&nbsp;utter disdain for every request made of them turned both&nbsp;Late&nbsp;Blooming Mom and Dad into Ogres, and not of the cuddly, Shrek variety.&nbsp; Toys were taken away, privileges too.&nbsp; Sunday proved a day without any television or sugary treats, and&nbsp;the kids' being denied the wearing of their&nbsp;recently purchased,&nbsp;way cool&nbsp;sneakers.&nbsp; But apologies were given -- by&nbsp;kids&nbsp;and by mom and dad -- for bad behavior all around, and everyone was more or less civilized, in part because that afternoon, mom spent time alone with daughter, and dad spent time alone with the son.&nbsp; Apart from each other, with&nbsp;one adult solely focused on them, each of the kids behaved well, and even did&nbsp;chores without complaint (well, kinda sorta).&nbsp;It was a third-week-of-winter break&nbsp;miracle.&nbsp; <br /><br />But it was truly only Monday morning, when everyone had had a decent amount of sleep, and the&nbsp;getting-ready-for-school routine had kicked into gear, when&nbsp;peace felt fully restored to the home kingdom.<br /><br />So once again, I must ask:&nbsp;&nbsp;a three-week winter break, LAUSD?&nbsp; Really?Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-35838883515284870282010-11-29T21:24:00.000-08:002010-11-29T21:38:06.933-08:00Why The Grinch Compels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TPSKZ7zeDUI/AAAAAAAAAS8/gfr5IZ1lTMw/s1600/grinch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TPSKZ7zeDUI/AAAAAAAAAS8/gfr5IZ1lTMw/s1600/grinch.jpg" /></a></div>This piece is going to appear in some form or other in the next issue of the Editor's Guild Magazine, but since most of my blog readers don't get it, I reprint it here for holiday enjoyment:<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;;">I know how it begins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>“Every Who down in Whoville liked Christmas a lot, but the Grinch, who lived just north of Whoville, did not.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;;">I know this Scrooge-like, green fellow will try to stop Christmas from coming.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;;">I know he’s going to show up on TV every year, and get his “wonderful, awful idea.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>He’ll disguise his dog Max as a reindeer and suit up as “Santie Claus.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>He’ll steal everything from all the Who houses, even the Who hash.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;;">I know every clever Seuss rhyme, every flawless inflection of Boris Karloff’s narration, every simple yet perfectly story-boarded Chuck Jones’-directed frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;;">Yet I watch it again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;;">I grew up a cultural Jew on New York’s Upper West Side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was taught by my parents to be mistrustful of organized religion – even our own - because religion can divide as much as it can unite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But I also went to a Quaker school where tolerance was taught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The holiday lights of Manhattan were hard to resist, whether on Hanukah menorahs or the Rockefeller Center tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As a child no bigger than Cindy Lou Who, I reveled in watching the Grinch take his triumphant ride down Mount Crumpet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;;">The story analyst in me gets why “The Grinch” is so damned effective (and far better than the movie-length, live action version).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There’s the brilliant use of language, whimsical humor, Seuss-inspired animated world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But what makes it resonate is the Grinch’s character arc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What could be better than to see a character whose heart is two sizes too small, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">believably</i> grow that heart three sizes, and find the strength of ten Grinches, plus two?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;;">Each time I watch – now with my own kids, Thing 1 and Thing 2 - I am as a child, struck anew with hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>People <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Even Grinches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span></div>Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-59791339167652825662010-11-07T10:17:00.000-08:002010-11-07T10:52:56.575-08:00Our "Almost" Readers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TNbtqu_YKgI/AAAAAAAAAS4/SFNyWU_dtSI/s1600/kid-reading-book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TNbtqu_YKgI/AAAAAAAAAS4/SFNyWU_dtSI/s320/kid-reading-book.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>This week, Late Blooming Dad had two amazing moments with the kids.&nbsp; The first one was when he went to pick up the kids from school because I couldn't, and happened upon the Girl's kindergarten teacher sitting alone with her, reading a book with her.&nbsp; The teacher&nbsp;motioned dad to wait a few moments till they finished; then she excitedly gushed, "She's so close!"&nbsp; Yes, the girl is about to become a reader.&nbsp; And this excitement came from the school's most veteran teacher, who has certainly seen this happen hundreds of times.&nbsp; Late Blooming Dad was thrilled.<br /><br />The second moment came with the Boy.&nbsp; <br /><a name='more'></a>His kindergarten teacher had sent home a homework game involving flashcards -- half a dozen or so words the Boy will be tested on in a couple of weeks.&nbsp; Every card&nbsp;dad flashed, in different order, over several tries, the Boy recognized; he knew&nbsp;each word by sight.&nbsp; Late Blooming Dad was teary-eyed.<br /><br />When I picked the&nbsp;kids&nbsp;up on Friday and said we were going to the school's Book Fair, they broke into a run to get there.&nbsp; I had to limit them to three books each.<br /><br />Yesterday, the Boy was insistent on a trip to the "liberry."<br /><br />So we are on the cusp, my friends.&nbsp; <br /><br />It's going to be a whole new world around here soon.<br /><br />One of&nbsp;nights in the not too far distant future, I'm going to have to tell each of&nbsp;them, "Turn off your flashlights and go to bed already!"&nbsp; "Just five more minutes!" they'll beg.&nbsp; Because they can't wait to find out ... how will Alice get back up the rabbit hole?&nbsp; Will the Grinch actually steal Christmas?&nbsp;&nbsp;Is Severus Snape a good guy or a bad guy?&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Will Frodo destroy the rings?&nbsp; And a million other questions that simply MUST be answered.<br /><br />I can hardly wait.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-67678722785033577262010-10-31T09:33:00.000-07:002010-10-31T09:34:19.876-07:00When Is The Make-The-Lunch Fairy Coming To My House?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TM2QVd3fX-I/AAAAAAAAAS0/5hMGIHkLLvQ/s1600/lunchfairy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TM2QVd3fX-I/AAAAAAAAAS0/5hMGIHkLLvQ/s1600/lunchfairy.jpg" /></a></div>The kids were tucked all snug in their beds, visions of lunchboxes packed with delicious food filled their heads ... and I was standing in the kitchen, post-work day, after supervising homework/showers/changing into PJs/picking clothes for tomorrow/eating dinner/brushing teeth/reading books, and finally tucking them in,&nbsp;with some help from Late Blooming Dad.&nbsp; But now I was alone in the kitchen,&nbsp;eyes&nbsp;scanning&nbsp;the fridge forlornly, searching for inspiration.&nbsp;&nbsp; What to make them?&nbsp; What to make them they'd actually eat some tomorrow if I&nbsp;made it for their lunch boxes&nbsp;tonight?&nbsp; It's then I had a vision:&nbsp; a vision of the Make-The-Lunch Fairy.<br /><br />Our kids get visits from the&nbsp;Tooth Fairy whenever they lose a tooth.&nbsp; Why can't we weary moms get a visit from the Make-The-Lunch Fairy whenever we are overwhelmed by life, and underwhelmed by the prospect of making yet another round of&nbsp;lunch box lunches?<br /><a name='more'></a>Ah, if I could only stick a note under my pillow -- or perhaps an empty Tupperware container -- and wake up&nbsp;the next morning to find&nbsp;two beautifully prepared, appealing-looking, nutritionally sound lunches-- well, at least not&nbsp;food that would get me a justifiable&nbsp;reprimand from Jamie Oliver -- that my kids would devour.&nbsp; Scratch that, devour isn't necessary; just not waste half.&nbsp; I'd gladly clap my hands to revive Tinker Bell and proclaim to all that I do believe in fairies if only this vision of blissful lunchbox heaven&nbsp;could come true.<br /><br />Alas, I know it is not to be.&nbsp; But is there anything more disheartening to the perpetually tired mom on a work-a-day school night than that prospect of making their lunches after everything else is finally done, and all you want to do is have a few moments to yourself (or, here's a novel idea, a few moments to actually be with and maybe even touch your husband, in interesting places, if you're not&nbsp;quite unconscious&nbsp;with exhaustion yet?)&nbsp; We really do need some real-world form of the Make-The-Lunch Fairy.&nbsp; And she shouldn't just confine her magical duties to making the lunches.&nbsp; She ought to plan for it and shop for it too.<br /><br />Saturday night, Late Blooming Dad made dinner and it was awesome.&nbsp; Oh, the food was good, but I'm not so much talking about the food.&nbsp;&nbsp; I'm talking about how he looked at what we had in the house, decided on a menu, made&nbsp;a main&nbsp;course&nbsp;for himself and Late Blooming Mom, and another entree for the kids that was kid-acceptable (we manage to have an entree kids and grown-ups can agree on about 50% of the time), plus sides we could all enjoy.&nbsp; Late Blooming Mom entertained the kids while he cooked, actually had fun playing with her own children, and gave not a thought to the coming meal.&nbsp; It was awesome.<br /><br />The only thing that might have been better would have been if he'd made it on a weeknight, but&nbsp;Late Blooming Dad's&nbsp;work schedule doesn't often permit this to happen.&nbsp; So I'll take what I can get.&nbsp; <br /><br />On weeknights, it's usually me putting dinner on the table, and it's also usually me lunch-making.&nbsp; Though now that I think of it, that happens AFTER the kids are asleep and work is (mostly) done, at least on most nights.&nbsp; Perhaps Late Blooming Dad could be persuaded to be the once-in-a-while Make-The-Lunch-Fairy?&nbsp; I know, I know, this means me accepting without&nbsp;criticizing&nbsp;whatever lunch Late Blooming Dad throws together, which may not look like, or be comprised of, the precisely balanced meal Late Blooming Mom feels compelled to pack (e.g., a mix of protein, carbs, fruits and veggies, in appropriately&nbsp;kid-sized small portions).&nbsp; Late Blooming Dad's lunch box offerings may wind up looking a little different.&nbsp; &nbsp;But&nbsp;neither is he&nbsp;going to a pull a Bill Cosby, who famously, at least in a comedy&nbsp;routine, confessed to giving his kids chocolate cake for breakfast (because it contained eggs and milk, so why not?).&nbsp; <br /><br />The thing is, whatever lunch he makes may come back less than half-eaten ... just like the ones I pack.&nbsp; It's the kids who make this so damn hard.&nbsp; I've taken to sitting down with them on occasion and making or revising a list of the lunch items they consider acceptable.&nbsp; And that list is far too short, particularly when it comes to Thing 1, whose range of consumption-worthy food items wouldn't even fill the screen of an i-phone.&nbsp; Still, it's what I've got to work with.&nbsp; The list leads to a lot of repeats, and the problem with too many repeats is, those frequently appearing items soon lose their lunch-box appeal, and the acceptable lunch list grows ever shorter.&nbsp; If only Thing 1 would replace one removed item with something new.&nbsp; But alas, he is infamously reluctant to try new foods.&nbsp; I thank the taste bud gods that at least Thing 2 was born with a somewhat more adventurous palate.&nbsp; Her "I will eat" list runs half the length of a notepad page -- an almost reasonable length -- and she occasionally deems something worthy to add to it.<br /><br />I try to be comforted by first lady Michelle Obama's admission that for a year or so of her childhood, all she ate were peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.&nbsp; Now she's growing a White House vegetable garden.&nbsp; So I know there's hope for my kids.&nbsp; They will no doubt grow up to be good eaters as adults, or at least, eaters who consume more than a handful of things over and over again.&nbsp; But the evolution of their appetites can't come soon enough for me: just think of how many lunches I'll have to pack between now and then?&nbsp; The mind boggles.&nbsp; The mom weeps.<br /><br />I guess for now I will have to make do with nudging Late Blooming Dad to pretend he's the Make-The-Lunch-Fairy once in while.&nbsp; The rest of the time,&nbsp;I'll be&nbsp;back to my planning/shopping/and bleary-eyed, exasperated weeknight lunch box prep sessions.&nbsp;&nbsp; But if anyone really does get a visit from a Make-The-Lunch Fairy, would you please send her over to my house?Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-16416210760450374612010-10-10T10:36:00.000-07:002010-10-10T11:12:27.484-07:00Advice For Twin Moms, Nearly Six Years In<img height="240" id="il_fi" src="http://www.bouncy-house-jumper-rentals.com/images/bouncy-house-slide_lokb.jpg" width="320" /><br />Yesterday, at a kids' birthday party, I was standing by the bouncy house watching my boy/girl twins, now five-and-three-quarters,&nbsp;&nbsp;bounce themselves into a gleeful state, when a pregnant woman approached me.&nbsp;&nbsp;Her own kid, a three-year-old girl, was bouncing along with mine, and she'd ascertained&nbsp;mine were twins.&nbsp; "Any advice?" she asked, explaining, "I'm about to have twin boys."<br /><br />I was instantly transported back to those early days of twin&nbsp;momhood, when I felt as if I'd been&nbsp;instantly propelled into a giant bouncy house the moment the c-section began. <br /><a name='more'></a><br />At nearly six years into being a mother of twins, I am only just beginning to&nbsp;realize I've landed from all that bouncing, and can feel&nbsp;solid ground beneath my feet again.&nbsp;&nbsp;But those memories of the first days&nbsp;are&nbsp;sharp, and though much of the past few years has gone by in a flurry and a blur, I do have a few&nbsp;suggestions to share that may make&nbsp;the experience of raising&nbsp;twins from&nbsp;babyhood to kindergarten a wee bit easier. <br /><br />1)In those first months, when you get up to feed one, feed the other right after ... even if you have to wake up Baby #2.&nbsp; <br /><br />I know it sounds like it's against the "never wake a sleeping baby" wisdom, and the dictum, "feed on demand," but the truth is, the person who needs sleep the most and isn't getting it is MOM.&nbsp; The only way to ensure mom gets some is to feed those babies one after the other.&nbsp; I'd also suggest, if you're breastfeeding, to hand off the babies to someone else to either "top off" with a bottle, or let&nbsp;someone else&nbsp;-- dad or grandma or a night nurse if you can afford that luxury -- do a middle of the night bottle feed so you don't have to.&nbsp; Some breastfeeding experts or proponents may worry your kids will have nipple confusion and reject the breast or the bottle.&nbsp; Mine got the bottle as early as the hospital and still latched on fine for the brief time I breast fed both kids.&nbsp; And that leads to my second piece of advice:<br /><br />2)If you wind up not breastfeeding, don't have a guilt trip.<br /><br />I say this because I did.&nbsp; Six days after we got home from the hospital, my daughter, AKA Thing 2, developed a fever and had to go into the NICU for ten days.&nbsp; We theorize she might've been exposed to something while still in the hospital before we got her home, as we were excellent about hygeine when we got our babies home, and her little brother never caught whatever virus she had.&nbsp; But the main point of this story is, my breastfeeding when to hell after that.&nbsp; I tried pumping in the NICU, I tried keeping up the feedings of Thing 1 at home, but milk production dropped and I wasn't up to all the steps I'd have had to take to get it back up.&nbsp; I was too worried.&nbsp; I also managed to beat myself up and feel like a failure when the breastfeeding ended within four weeks of having my twins.&nbsp; That did nobody any good whatsoever.&nbsp; And as soon as Thing 2 came home, she proved a great eater.&nbsp; Both kids were formula-fed&nbsp; for much of that first year, and they've done just fine.&nbsp; In fact, Thing 2 is less prone to catching those preschool and now kindergarten&nbsp;colds than her brother, despite that first virus, and in general, both are very healthy kids.<br /><br />3)Give your kids separate time with each parent.<br /><br />This advice should kick in when they're a little older.&nbsp; Though some people can do it right away, I think that first year or so you're in survival mode, and you don't have this luxury very often.&nbsp; It's especially hard if, like Late Blooming Mom and Dad, both parents work full time.&nbsp; But as the kids get mobile and start walking and talking, it's key to both individual development for your twins, and sanity for you as parents.&nbsp; I've hit on this theme before (see my blogpost <a href="http://latebloomingmom.blogspot.com/2008/08/two-kids-divide-and-conquer.html">Two Kids?&nbsp; Divide And Conquer</a>), but can't say enough in favor of doing this.&nbsp; Just about every Saturday for the past two years, and intermittently before that, my husband and I have each taken one kid and spent a good part of the day alone with that kid.&nbsp; We've also sometimes separated the kids for baths, for bedtime stories, for doctor's appointments, etc.&nbsp; <br /><br />Every time we've done it, it's been sooooooo much easier than being with both of them at the same time.&nbsp; It's almost like a vacation.&nbsp; There are little things, like when you're only out and about with one kid, getting them in and out of the car seat multiple times and making multiple stops with them is so much quicker and less of a hassle than with two.&nbsp; And taking one ot the park, without having to worry about losing sight of the other just when they're about to take a fall and break a tooth, is actually relaxing.&nbsp; But the bigger thing is simply that one kid can bask in 100% of one parent's attention without having to fight for it.&nbsp; And you can get to know your own kid in a way you just can't when he or she is always with the other twin.&nbsp; Time slows down and so does your pulse.&nbsp; The little moments can happen; you can both just breathe.&nbsp; We found the fits and temper tantrums almost magically disappeared&nbsp;on many of our&nbsp;separate Saturdays.&nbsp; Each kid was <em>mostly</em> a perfect little angel, and when they were not, each parent was far more patient and understanding and better able to diffuse the situation.<br /><br />4)Take the kids to separate enrichment classes and playdates when you can.<br /><br />This was probably a bit easier for me because my kids are not of the same gender, and very naturally have had different interests.&nbsp; And again, it's easier to do, and more important, after they get a little older, certainly by four.&nbsp; When they were babies and toddlers, taking them to a music class or gym class usually&nbsp;required two hands on deck.&nbsp; But now that the classes don't require parents to be in the class with the kids, it's easier to manage taking them to different classes.&nbsp; Thing 1 is in her second year of ballet, now ballet and tap, and it's all about the clothes and the shoes and the hairdo.&nbsp; She couldn't be more of a girly girl.&nbsp; Thing 2, after spending much of the last school year Saturdays in various sports/gym classes, has gravitated toward music, and is happily getting his musical foundations in&nbsp;a Saturday morning class.&nbsp;It's been&nbsp;delightful watching them develop their own interests and seeing their enthusiasm at pursuing these interests.<br /><br />Both kids have also had a few playdates on which the other sibling did not come, or had a friend over to our place without having sibling interference.&nbsp; One thing this really helped was the transition to kindergarten, where my twins are now in separate classrooms; in preschool, my kids were in the same classroom for three years.&nbsp; They took to kindergarten like ducks to water, and with only minimal anxiety about being separated.<br /><br />5)Get to know some&nbsp;other parents of twins, and&nbsp;play with&nbsp;at least one&nbsp;twin family&nbsp;with&nbsp;kids&nbsp;the same age as yours.<br /><br />In these first five years, it's been really helpful to have people to talk to in support meetings, and to exchange message board questions and answers, and I've done this via the <a href="http://www.wlapom.org/">West Los Angeles Parents of Multiples</a>.&nbsp; There are similar&nbsp;twin or multiples&nbsp;parent clubs all over the country.&nbsp; There's great comfort, a feeling of solidarity, a sense of validation and occasional necessary&nbsp;commiseration that comes with knowing people who are going through pretty much the same thing you are going through, at the same time.&nbsp; If you're going through something twin-specific, chances are, another twin parent is going to "get it."&nbsp; <br /><br />I also met another family with twins around the same age via a toddler&nbsp;music class, and it's been a great thing to have playdates with them.&nbsp; Each of my kids gets a playmate (like us, this family has boy/girl twins),&nbsp;and the parental friendships have kicked in as well.&nbsp;&nbsp;Twin parents aren't the only ones in the family who&nbsp;need to be with people who&nbsp;"get it."&nbsp; If&nbsp;your kids can&nbsp;develop a friendship with a&nbsp;playmate who&nbsp;gets what it's like having a twin, well, that's&nbsp;a good thing too.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-1987963163836347092010-10-04T18:05:00.000-07:002010-10-04T19:42:05.305-07:00Kids And The Culture Of CrueltyMaybe it started with the sniping between roommates on MTV's THE REAL WORLD, the grand-daddy of today's mis-named "reality" tv shows.&nbsp; Or maybe it was SURVIVOR, which featured a weekly climax in which someone was always "voted off the island."&nbsp; But whenever it started, it seems as if every "reality" show has one thing in common with every other "reality" show:&nbsp; somebody's always getting eliminated.&nbsp; Along the way, the contestants are generally humiliated and subject to verbal,&nbsp;even physical, abuse.&nbsp; But that's just TV.&nbsp; It doesn't mean our culture, the one in which we're raising our kids, is pervasively cruel, does it?<br /><a name='more'></a><br /><br />I think back to the anti-health care reform rallies last summer, and the footage of protesters meanly hurling dollar bills at a man with Parksinson's disease, then belittling him, claiming he was after&nbsp;"handouts."&nbsp; That's what they considered healthcare reform:&nbsp; a hand-out, rather than a way to address the cruelties of the insurance giants who were routinely cancelling policies when people got sick,&nbsp; and refusing to insure those with pre-existing conditions, among other examples of really bad, anti-social, if profitable, behavior.&nbsp; <br /><br />I think about the kid who was basically bullied to death last week when his roommate and another kid streamed a sexual encounter on the web.<br /><br />I see a lot of cruetly happening in our culture -- person to person meanness, a decay of the social contract, a lack of "doing unto others" as you would have them do unto you.&nbsp; <br /><br />I see a kind of publicly sanctioned social Darwinism, only it's not necessarily the fittest who survive:&nbsp; it's the meanest.&nbsp; <br /><br />It's in this environment that&nbsp;we're all&nbsp;having to raise&nbsp;our kids.<br /><br />I can't control what goes on in the world, and to&nbsp;a large extent, I can't control what my kids are going to be exposed to, beyond what I allow them to watch on TV,&nbsp;what music&nbsp;I'll let them listen to, etc.&nbsp; They're still pretty&nbsp;small and they don't know how to work the TV or computer or stereo by themselves,&nbsp;so it's&nbsp;pretty easy at the moment. I know this is not always going to be the case.&nbsp;&nbsp;I don't know who's going to try to bully them at school, and I don't know what I'll be able to do about that yet.<br /><br />But there are some things I can do now.&nbsp; In my house, sometimes a kid or a parent does something mean -- usually when tempers flare, sleep has been deprived, life is stressful.&nbsp; We're far from perfect.&nbsp; But when somebody strays into meanness around here, they know it's wrong, and they apologize.&nbsp; Sure, we each&nbsp;fail to be kind sometimes, probably on a daily basis.&nbsp; But much more of the time, we are respecting each other; we are taking care of one another; and we&nbsp;care when someone around here is sad or mad or upset over hurt feelings.<br /><br />I'm lucky to have twins, and my twins have amazing empathy toward one another.&nbsp; Just about every time one of them cries, the other shows up moments later with a treasured stuffed animal, the other one's favorite, to make the sibling feel better.&nbsp; Their empathy doesn't&nbsp;stop with each other either.&nbsp;&nbsp;Last year, when our family cat died, they were especially sweet to me,&nbsp;because&nbsp;I&nbsp;took the loss the hardest:&nbsp; I'd had the kitty for twelve years.&nbsp; The cat was named Honeybear.&nbsp;&nbsp;When I told the kids the cat had died after&nbsp;a long illness, they&nbsp;decided to give me "Honeybear hugs," and&nbsp;that&nbsp;from then on, if anyone was sad in our family for any reason, the kids said that person&nbsp;should be given a&nbsp;Honeybear hug.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Though&nbsp;this kind of empathy&nbsp;doesn't stop my kids from having fits and being difficult, they know it upsets mom and dad, and they always show up in front of us sometime after the fit to say, "I'm sorry."<br /><br />They still have their moments of bad behavior; I've been kicked and&nbsp;slapped and spit at, though not very often, and not very hard.&nbsp; So has Dad.&nbsp; But every time, Late Blooming Dad and I have told them right when it happens that this behavior is wrong; we've followed it up with an immediate consequence; we've removed them from rooms with others so they won't harm anyone, and stayed with them so they don't hurt themslves.&nbsp; Always, the intensity of the emotion passes, and they get the message that they're still safe and loved, but that what they've done is not okay.&nbsp; <br /><br />The kids have spotted homeless people on the street, and seen us giving money to them.&nbsp; They've seen us cart food to our Temple's food drive.&nbsp; I hope to include them more in this sort of thing as they get older and can understand it better.<br /><br />I hope my kids will turn out to be good people -- real mensches.&nbsp; <br /><br />I may not succeed in this goal.&nbsp; But it's the single&nbsp;most important goal I have for my kids.&nbsp; I know a lot of parents I come across in my little circle of the world who feel the same.&nbsp;&nbsp;But&nbsp;I just hope something changes in the prevailing&nbsp;culture pretty soon. <br /><br />I don't&nbsp;believe we're here to vote other people off the island.&nbsp; We're here to make life on the island better.&nbsp; For all of us.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-82076819087980526202010-09-26T21:32:00.000-07:002010-09-26T22:32:48.333-07:00Working Mom's Latest Fear: Will I Be Sucked Into The School Volunteer Vortex?<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TKAecLak-VI/AAAAAAAAASw/8QN7R1R34U8/s1600/Volunteer_clip_art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TKAecLak-VI/AAAAAAAAASw/8QN7R1R34U8/s320/Volunteer_clip_art.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>There are 43 committees at my kids' school's parent booster club.<br /><br />Is it just me, or does that sound like school&nbsp;volunteer overkill?&nbsp; <br /><br />Since my kids have been in kindergarten -- two weeks -- I have filled out dozens of forms from the club, not to mention the kids' teachers, all to do with what activities I can volunteer to be a part of, in the classroom and outside of it, ranging from re-shelving library books to driving kids to and from field trips to helping to organize and run any of the myriad of fund-raising events&nbsp;and activities that occur throughout the year. I've been told of mandatory <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">commitments</span> per child at the school, e.g., every family has to work one traffic safety shift, at pickup or drop-off, per child, during the year. I have been invited to no less than four volunteer events, and I've already missed two of those. I've been asked to contribute the "suggested" amount per child&nbsp;-- and&nbsp;nothing that you can pay in ten installments is cheap&nbsp;--&nbsp;&nbsp;because, though a public education is free, a great one is not -- especially nowadays.&nbsp; Every day brings more mail in the kids' backpacks, offering additional ways to get involved. <br /><br />If I get another piece of paper from the parent association, it's quite possible my head is going to explode.<br /><a name='more'></a><br />I know the parent&nbsp;booster club is&nbsp;well-meaning. I know a good deal of this parental involvement is necessary, and at the very&nbsp;least,&nbsp;important, given the sorry state of public school funding in my home state. At the school my kids attend, funds raised by the parent association pay for art, music, physical education, an aide in every classroom at least part of the school day, a librarian,classroom computers and other equipment and maintenance, building and grounds improvement,&nbsp;and even additional teachers to keep class sizes from ballooning even further than they already have. <br /><br />But please, well-meaning parent associations all over America, acknowledge this:&nbsp;a lot of us, moms and dads in the same household,&nbsp;have to work.<br /><br />I was at a kids' birthday party this past weekend,&nbsp;chatting mostly&nbsp;with parents I know from the private preschool my kids attended (where, I might add, parent volunteering was gently encouraged, but no one was made to feel guilty if their schedules didn't allow for it). All of us have kids who've just entered&nbsp;elementary school, or have done so within the past two years.&nbsp; The four other moms I commiserated with there are all working moms, and among the&nbsp;five of us, our kids attend five different public schools. Here's what some of them had to say (I'm paraphrasing and relying on an imperfect memory, but you'll get the gist): "The guilt about having to volunteer is unbelievable." This from a psychotherapist. "They had me making these booklets, I had to punch out these shapes and fit them all together; it was really complicated and it took so long just to make one." This from a doctor. Another said, "I'm going in every other week to my kids' classroom --&nbsp; my husband's going to go&nbsp;the times&nbsp;I can't.&nbsp; I did it the first time last week -- yes, it was fun -- but I was exhausted before I even got in to work!"&nbsp; <br /><br />One mom, whose youngest just started at the school her older daughter already attends, confided, "A friend of mine volunteered to do a classroom project. It was a nightmare." Her friend had been sucked into the school volunteer vortex.&nbsp;The project wound up&nbsp;taking huge amounts of time. She worked really hard.&nbsp; And yet&nbsp;there was no pleasing anyone. Perhaps that's why this mom concluded with this advice: "Don't do it. Don't volunteer."<br /><br />If only I had her guts. But the peer pressure is enormous, not to mention the self-generated pressure: what a horrible person I'll be if I don't help my kids' school. I feel as if I'll be hurting not just my kids, but their deserving,&nbsp;adorable little classmates. And, of course, volunteering can be rewarding.&nbsp; (Well, except for the times when there's no pleasing anyone.)<br /><br />But the other thing is, there are all these <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Uber </span>Volunteer Moms (UVMs) at my kids' school, and at the schools of these other moms' kids -- moms who once had high-powered careers, but have&nbsp;chosen to&nbsp;give them up -- or can afford to have given them up -- to be high-powered moms. God bless them, they can head up these committees and organize and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fund raise</span> in all their spare time -- time that I and many of my working mom peers simply don't have. What with my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">full time</span> job, I&nbsp;feel like I don't see my kids enough as it is.&nbsp; I like&nbsp;to spend the time my kids are not in school and I'm not working, um, WITH MY KIDS. And what precious little "me" time I have left over, when my spouse gives me a breather by watching them for a few hours on Sunday, or they're actually <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">asleep</span>, is for keeping myself sane with blogging; a book project that I need to pursue for fulfillment I don't always get from working, mothering, and being a wife; exercising, what little I can; cooking a meal or two ahead; vegging out to a half hour of FOOD TV or "The Daily Show;" taking an occasional bath; having a once-in-a-blue-moon long distance phone conversation with a college friend/fellow working&nbsp;mom&nbsp;on the other coast, when the stars align and we can actually chat without interruption by kids or&nbsp;spouses&nbsp;for maybe&nbsp;twenty minutes; oh, and did I mention actually taking a nap?&nbsp; A forty-minute weekend afternoon nap -- man, it doesn't get much better than that. These things keep me sane. And a sane mommy is a better mommy. <br /><br />Adding to the long list of mom/work/wife responsibilities with school volunteering means sacrificing time I'd like to have doing all those other things -- some admittedly trivial, but necessary to stress relief. As it is, I haven't been to one meeting yet, and I'm already nursing a bad case of reflux just contemplating it.<br /><br />Yet later this week, I'm scheduled to perform my first volunteer activities at the school. I'm sure I'll feel virtuous for having done so, or at least, a smidgen less guilty. No doubt I will enjoy meeting other parents, some of whom, like me, may have to rush off to "real jobs" as soon as our volunteer session is done. And yes, in some small way, it will probably help the school, which after all is a community to which my family now belongs, and to which I am in some way obligated to contribute.<br /><br />But I feel like I'd better bring some <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">wolfsbane</span> with me, maybe some garlic, a silver bullet. Anything I need to ward off the <span style="background-color: yellow;">UVMs</span>, and their guilt-inducing pleas for more, more, more precious hours of my time. If you've ever been sucked into the school volunteer vortex, you know what I'm talking about. Or maybe,&nbsp;as that gutsy mom advised me at the party, I will find the strength, at least some of the time, to JUST SAY NO. </div>Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2625746416158531514.post-18951917379724185432010-09-23T16:19:00.000-07:002010-09-23T16:37:11.285-07:00Kindergarten On The Spin Cycle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TJvkj9t_3gI/AAAAAAAAASo/tomIRgLaBc4/s1600/spin-cycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_h69p-_-8LOU/TJvkj9t_3gI/AAAAAAAAASo/tomIRgLaBc4/s320/spin-cycle.jpg" /></a></div>It seems an endless weekday spin cycle in the week and a half since kindergarten began.&nbsp; (The Spin Cycle is what my childhood friend and now fellow Late Blooming Mom, Lauren, calls it -- and that's exactly how it feels.)<br /><br />Kids' chatter drifts in from their bedroom around 6:35 a.m.&nbsp; By 6:40, it's up-and-at-'em, with Late Blooming Dad standing over the kids urging them to dress in the clothes they picked out the night before, so as to avoid delays.&nbsp; What happens?&nbsp; Delays anyway.&nbsp; Little minds change:&nbsp; "I don't want to wear that shirt."&nbsp; "Where's my sweat band?"&nbsp; "Can you help me put on my socks?"&nbsp;&nbsp; If one happens to start playing with a toy, the other wants it ... even as dad insists, "This isn't playtime now."<br /><a name='more'></a><br /><br />The clock is ticking and by seven a.m. if no one has thrown a fit, the kids are seated at the breakfast table, food in front of them set out by Late Blooming Mom.&nbsp; Re-warmed pancakes (we make them once or twice a week), toaster waffles, some cut up fruit, some milk for him, some juice for her.&nbsp; There's much to-do over what to put on the pancakes (lately Thing 1 and Thing 2 are partial to a schmear of chocolate hazelnut butter) and how to cut them ("Pizza slices, please!").&nbsp; Vitamins are distrubuted and chewed.&nbsp; Thing 2 eats everything on her plate and wants more.&nbsp; Thing 2 can't seem to make a dent in his breakfast; he's too distracted by an ad for a movie in the newspaper I've made the mistake of putting on the table.<br /><br />If only they would just sit and eat.&nbsp; But somehow, Thing 2 invariably wanders into the kitchen in search of something else to eat; Thing 1 wants dry cereal only, but only certain kinds (Honey Bunnies, Gorilla Munch, and Life), and he's come to supervise the selection.&nbsp; If a toy has somehow found its way to the table, despite the rules, there will be disputes over possession.&nbsp; He uses the bathroom.&nbsp; She insists on washing her hands because they got sticky.&nbsp; All the while, Late Blooming Mom and Dad are barking, "Time's almost up.&nbsp; Keep eating!" as if this were the annual fourth of July hot dog-eating competition at Nathan's Coney Island.&nbsp; <br /><br />It doesn't seem to matter if we set&nbsp;a timer to beep when breakfast is&nbsp; supposed to be finished, or keep reminding them we need to get to kindergarten on time.&nbsp; They have no concept of "late."&nbsp; They are not goal-oriented; the goal of getting someone on time is not only uninteresting to them, but not really clear.&nbsp; Even though mommy and daddy keep emphasizing, "We can't be late," they don't understand about having to go to the office for a "tardy" slip and being walked into class in front of all their classmates, already settled at their activities, and a stern-looking teacher who is no doubt keeping a mental checklist of which parents can't manage to get their five-year-old to school on time.<br /><br />After breakfast, the kids still&nbsp;need help brushing teeth.&nbsp; And then there's getting their hair brushed (which involves spray in order to tame his bed head and her knots) and admonishments to put their shoes on, and finally, sunscreen is&nbsp;applied.&nbsp; Somehow that application of suncreen invariably cues the start of a meltdown.&nbsp; Thing 1 doesn't want to wear THAT jacket, but can't find the one he DOES want to wear, and isn't pacified by the offer to look for it at school.&nbsp; Never mind that we live in Southern California and the likelihood of him needing to wear the jacket is small at best.&nbsp; Thing 2 wants to bring bracelets, but only the ones that match, and she can't find them and we have no time to search for them.&nbsp; Late Blooming Dad, on drop-off duty, is already getting his colon in a knot.&nbsp; Late Blooming Mom hasn't even eaten yet and her stomach acid is through the roof (or at least gurgling up into her throat:&nbsp; what's better than reflux to kick-start your day?)<br /><br />At last they are out the door, Dad strapping them into booster seats, then moments later acting as referee in an argument between them&nbsp;while in the middle of&nbsp; his tricky search for a parking&nbsp;spot within a few blocks of school (there's no school parking lot since we live in the middle of a city) amidst the cloud of CO2 that hovers around the school at drop-off time.&nbsp; Back at home, Mom scarfs down cereal and then exercises, getting the day's work started reading through documents while on the excercise bike.&nbsp; There's time for a quick shower, and then work begins for both Mom and Dad in earnest.<br /><br />Late Blooming Mom is on pick-up duty, and post-school, there's homework to be found and mountains of papers sent home from the school to be signed (gift wrap fundraising, anyone?&nbsp; volunteers to car pool on field trips?).&nbsp; At the moment, Late Blooming Mom has some paid babysitting help so she can finish her work.&nbsp; But when that's over, the spin cycle continues, making sure homework's done and deposited in backpacks for the following day; lunches are made; and dinner is consumed starting promptly at six p.m.. Otherwise, there's no time for each kid to have a turn at the TV, teeth to get brushed, clothes picked out for the next day, and bedtime stories read.&nbsp; Like the 6:40-8:00 a.m. time slot, the 6pm-8:15pm time slot is passed with an eye on the clock and parental admonishments to eat, get ready for bed, and get in bed.&nbsp; Bedtime stories might be fun, in fact sometimes they are, but too often there are disputes over who gets their book read first or second, interruptions for one more drink of water/trip to the bathroom, demands for lotion or bandaids, etc.<br /><br />By 8:15, the wee ones are usually out at last, and mom and dad can finish all that school paperwork, any actual work that didn't get done, do any household bookeeping/bill-paying/maintenance, and pass out in front of THE DAILY SHOW.<br /><br />All too soon, it's 6:40 a.m. again, and we're all being spun around in&nbsp;what has, in a week-and-a-half scine school began, been our&nbsp;weekday spin cycle.&nbsp; I'd stop and breathe -- really I would -- if there was time to do it.Late Blooming Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11686347589869383761noreply@blogger.com3